


non-linearity

by 0shadow_panther0



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: All Routes, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, F/F, F/M, Multi, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Reincarnation, Time Shenanigans, Time Travel, heavy spoilers, lots of father-daughter feels
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-08-07
Updated: 2020-07-27
Packaged: 2020-08-11 03:30:47
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 19
Words: 45,449
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20146903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0shadow_panther0/pseuds/0shadow_panther0
Summary: It is one thing to live a hundred different lives, and another thing entirely to remember them.Or, the Divine Pulse was only ever meant rewind so much. Luckily, Byleth is good at breaking things, and time is no exception.





	1. in which she remembers

There’s a war. There’s always a war.

First, a woman in white, plunging a dagger in the heart of a man twice her size.

Then a man in black, dripping with furs, eyes shadowed and gaunt.

Then a woman in red, horns curling up to the sky, her axe bared at the dragon that towers above her.

Then a man in gold, pointing his arrow at the heavens, eyes steady and unwavering.

Then a woman in white, draped in ceremonial garb, drifting down like a feather from the stars—

The girl in Byleth’s dreams is confused.

“You again?” she asks. Then, looking around, ”Here? What could you have possibly done?” Her wild mane of hair flutters as she shakes her head. “You mortals are truly impossible.”

There’s a sharp lance of longing that plunges through Byleth’s heart. She swallows thickly. “Who—?”

The girl narrows her eyes. “Hurry up and awaken,” she scolds. “The faster you progress, the faster you’ll remember.”

She blinks, and then she’s in her tent, Jeralt ducking under the flap to tell her to get ready to move out.

By the time she’s dressed, the dream is a distant memory.

* * *

She dreams more nights than not. The scenes differ, sometimes. Sometimes they’re younger, eyes soft and warm and unburdened by war, and sometimes they’re older, and Byleth is kissing them—

The girl gets progressively more irritated by Byleth’s lack of recognition.

“Honestly,” she huffs, twirling a lock of hair around her finger. “Abusing my powers like that, and then having the gall to forget me! Who do you think you are!”

“...Sorry,” Byleth murmurs.

She huffs. “I’ll tell you one more time—the last, I swear! My name is—“

“Sothis,” Byleth says. She wakes up.

* * *

The dream again—a battlefield. She has names to the faces this time, whatever the reason. Seiros, the woman in white and gold with fury in her eyes, and Nemesis, the man in chains and fur who reeks of death.

Then it shifts—now it’s Byleth who faces Nemesis, and by her side is the man in gold.

He glances back at her and winks. His are a brilliant green, set aflame by the dying sun. “You trust me, right?”

“Always.” The word is out of her mouth unthinkingly. No doubt, no hesitation.

The turn to Nemesis in tandem, weapons at the ready.

“_Clau_—“

“Kid, it’s time to move out.”

Byleth blinks the sleep away, a name on her lips.

Jeralt has a hand on her shoulder—undoubtedly what roused her. She’s lying on the ground, blankets bundled around her in a makeshift nest. She’s in her tent, not a raging battlefield, and the man next to her is her father, not—

Not who?

She takes a few steadying breathes, closing her eyes to ground herself. Her head is spinning.

Jeralt frowns, leaning forward to press the back of his hand against her forehead. “You okay, kid?”

“...Dizzy,” she manages. “Just a little. I had a strange dream.”

Jeralt makes a low noise, and she looks up at him. His mouth is twisted with concern, the furrow of his brow adding years to his face.

“I’m fine,” Byleth reassures him.

She rises, deliberately slow, and finds her coat where it’s draped over her pack.

“It’s a long road to the Kingdom,” Jeralt says. “If you’re unwell...”

“I’m fine,” Byleth repeats sternly, buckling her sword belt with short, precise movements. “I’ll move out with the rest.”

Her father sighs, then ruffles her hair with a gloved hand. “Stubborn,” he says fondly. “Just like your mother.”

She almost smiles.

“Captain!” a mercenary shouts. “Emergency!”

Jeralt releases a breath. “What?” he says, striding out of the tent. Byleth follows at his heels, a hand falling to the hilt of her sword.

The mercenary outside is flanked by three... children isn’t the right word, even as young as they are. Students, perhaps, judging by their uniforms, but—

She knows them.

She remembers them, remembers loving them and killing them in turns—remembers pressing a kiss to the girl-turned-woman’s mouth in the same breath as bringing a sword down on her head—

The girl tilts her head, lavender eyes cool and calm. She’s looking at Byleth, not Jeralt, but her eyes hold curiosity, not recognition.

Byleth remembers to breathe again.

“...hate to cause trouble,” the golden-haired boy is saying, bowing at the waist, “but your assistance would be highly appreciated.

Jeralt sighs, and the girl’s eyes turn back to him. “If they followed you here, it can’t be helped,” he mutters. “We can’t let bandits take the village. C’mon, kid. There’s work to do.”

Byleth nods.

The third, his hair a tousled mess and green eyes twinkling, winks. “Pleasure working with you,” he chirps.

The motion is so familiar that she’s sure she’s known this boy her whole life, and it takes a moment to collect herself.

The dream.

“Claude,” Byleth murmurs.

The boy’s smile falters for a split second. There’s a long beat of silence. Every pair of eyes is on them.

He—Claude—laughs. “I suppose my name is getting around, huh? New heir and all that.”

Byleth is frozen. Claude, Claude, _Claude_—

He pulls her tight, face buried in the crook of her neck. “I’ll come back for you,” he promises. “We’ll see our dream through together—”

“Sir!” a mercenary calls. “Bandits approaching!”

She jolts out of her stupor, catching the tail-end of Jeralt’s concerned gaze and the narrow-eyed glance of the girl in red.

“Move out!” her father barks. “Set up position at the edge of the forest, use whatever cover you can!” Then, turning to the students, “You three, pull your weight. We’re helping you, but we’re not putting our necks out for nothing.”

Claude offers a lazy salute, grinning crookedly, then scampers off, calling for high ground.

“Young lady, with me, if you will,” Jeralt says. The pale-eyed girl nods, following after him.

Byleth meets her father’s eyes, and they exchange nods.

“With me,” she tells the boy in blue.

“Of course,” he replies. His voice is deep and smooth. He bows, formal but not stiff. “I am Dimitri. Thank you for your help.”

“Byleth,” she replies, then turns to stride across camp. Distantly, she hears Jeralt barking orders to the rest of the mercenaries. “Come,” she orders. “We should set up before the bandits realize you’ve found help.”

He trots after her obediently, half a step behind as she threads though the outskirts of the forest towards the sentries. A few more mercenaries tag along, forming a small squad.

“We came from the north,” Dimitri pipes up. “They’re likely coming from the same direction.” He pauses. “Unless they decided to circle around to cut us off.”

She hums, drawing a mental map. “They won’t circle,” she tells him. “The forest is too thick. They’d slow down too much and you would’ve escaped.”

He nods. “That makes sense,” he agrees. “You’re well-versed in these matters. How long have you been a mercenary?”

“My whole life,” she answers, brief but patient.

“And the leader—Jeralt, was it?—is your father?”

“Yes.”

Dimitri makes a thoughtful sound, then cuts himself up abruptly when Byleth stops in her tracks. She holds a finger to her lips. Quiet.

Distantly, she can hear the clamor of approaching bandits. Jeralt’s sentries had likely retreated already, if they were this close.

She takes off, veering to the side to find the clearing she had scouted the night they made camp, and Dimitri shadows her heels. The remaining mercenaries split off, melting into the forest with a sharp hand gesture from her.

“Across the clearing,” she orders. “We’ll take them by surprise when they run in.”

He nods, dashing across to cover in the foliage as the raucous clamoring of the bandits reaches a crescendo.

She scampers up a tree, crouching on a low-hanging branch just as the first sounds of battle reach her ears—some of her mercenaries engaging early. She unsheathes her sword, blade whispering against oiled leather, and watches Dimitri unsling his lance.

She lets the bandits trickle in, lets them run from their previous scuffle, abandoning their comrades, and waits until the last of them step foot into the clearing—

Then she strikes, dropping down from the boughs and burying her sword in the last straggler.

The others turn, shouting in confusion, and Dimitri leaps into action, running one through with his lance and spinning to deflect a poorly-aimed blow with a sharp clash of metal-on-metal.

Confident in his ability to not get himself killed, Byleth whips around to face her own opponents. Enraged and surprised, the bandits are clumsy and ill-prepared as Byleth falls into a familiar dance, blade flashing between enemies like a silver sprite.

It seems like mere moments before the enemies in blade’s reach are gone, blood pooling on the forest floor. Her eyes turn to Dimitri, who looks to be finishing off the remaining few.

He whirls his lance, dancing between enemies, all cold poise and grace. His strikes are heavy, massive force delivered by a deceptively slight body, eyes narrowed in grim determination.

But Byleth sees what he doesn’t—an archer poised to strike, hidden by the shadows of the forest.

She draws a breath, makes to call a warning—and then she’s struck by a vision so sharp she nearly doubles over with the force of it—

She presses a kiss to his brow, the fur of his cape rough and caked with blood under her fingers, his eyes dull and haunted.

She breathes a promise against his skin, and she thinks she might be crying—

She acts on pure instinct.

She darts forward, grabs a fistful of his cape, and yanks. He stumbles, blue eyes wide, and Byleth pulls him close, twists around him—

The pain is sharp and cold, lancing through her shoulder, and she hisses through her teeth.

The boy makes a shocked sound as she releases her death grip on his cape and deflects a sword strike from an opportunistic bandit, ignoring the fresh wave of pain that blooms from the arrow, then counters with a thrust, and the bandit falls with a gurgle.

“You’re unharmed?” she asks, flicking her blade with twist of her wrist, sending blood splattering onto the grass.

He blinks. “Y-yes,” he manages. Then, “Your shoulder—”

Byleth pauses, assesses the damage. The wound is shallow, the arrow slowed by the thick weave of her coat. With as much as she’s moving around, it would be more of a liability to keep the arrow in.

With one swift movement, she reaches back and yanks it out. He winces.

“I’m fine,” she offers, rolling her shoulder experimentally. The arrow drops from her hand, landing in the grass noiselessly. “I’ll see a healer after the fight.”

He’s still gaping at her, and it’s not until Byleth shoves him out of the way of a descending axe that he shakes himself out of his stupor and finishes off his would-be attacker with thrust of his lance.

She nods, stepping away, and takes off towards the archer that’s begun to flee, location compromised.

She’s faster, though, and the archer falls under her blade, as does one more bandit that decides to try his luck now than she’s wounded.

Dimitri catches back up to her as the last body slumps to the ground.

“That’s all of them on our side,” he says. There’s still the noise of battle echoing around them, and Byleth straightens, wiping her blade on the dead bandit’s clothes before moving to sheathe it.

“We need to meet up with the others,” she says, then sucks in a sharp breath when her movements jostle the wound at her shoulder.

It’s not much, but it’s enough that Dimitri notices. “Shouldn’t you take care of that?”

“I’m fine,” she says. She’s been saying that a lot, she notices idly. “We need to meet up with the others. The fight is still going.”

He looks like he wants to protest, but Byleth takes off before he can so much as draw breath to speak, leaving him with little choice but to follow.

Dimitri stays by her side and she scours the forest, searching for pockets of fighting and swiftly ending any battles they come across. The mercenaries seem to suffer little, if any, losses, and when they finally come across Jeralt and the girl, the two seem no worse for wear other then some dirt on their clothes, finishing off what appears to be the last of the bandits.

“Edelgard!” Dimitri calls, and the girl turns.

Byleth mouths the name noiselessly. Edelgard. The name seems... right, somehow—

Backlit by the dying sun, she curtsies, her smile soft and so, so warm.

“Together,” she says, “we will bring a new dawn to this country. You and I. I love—”

Byleth collapses.

* * *

She’s dreaming again, she thinks.

Sothis is reclined on her stone throne, eyes narrowed and face twisted in consternation.

“You’re infuriating,” she informs Byleth. “Of all the mortals to get saddled with, I get the most impossible, _frustrating_ one in the world.”

“Have I met them before?” Byleth asks. “I keep… _remembering_. I know them, I think.”

Sothis huffs, crossing her legs and looking away. “Time is difficult. Even moreso for you. There’s a thousand decisions that can be made in every moment, but picking one doesn’t change the flow of time. It only creates a new path. They continue onward, diverging more and more, creating new branches, but never crossing.”

Byleth blinks. “What does that mean for me?”

Sothis turns her eyes down, brilliant green and nearly luminescent, and sighs.

“It means,” she says, “that you’ve broken time. Congratulations.”


	2. in which she travels

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was NOT expecting such a masssively positive reception to this fic and im super glad people seem to like it! thank you for reading and commenting!!

She wakes up to Jeralt crouched over her, fear etched into his features. The three students are hovering behind him, peering down at her with varying levels of concern.

She watches her father’s expression morph into relief, shoulders sagging with his sigh. “Thank the goddess,” he mutters.

Dimitri, the most worried-looking of the three, exhales sharply. “If you were so wounded, you should have gone to see a healer,” he chides. There’s guilt in his eyes, and it ages him a decade.

It takes a moment for her to remember the arrow. She barely notices the wound, a dull throb with sluggish bleeding. “Ah,” she says. “It wasn’t that.”

“Illness?” Edelgard says, the same beat that Claude suggests, “Poison?”

They exchange glances, and Edelgard’s eyes narrow as Claude shrugs helplessly.

“I wasn’t feeling well,” Byleth offers.

Claude’s brows rise. “If you weren’t feeling well to begin with, I can’t imagine what a force you’d be in peak condition.”

Dimitri turns to face him sharply. “You were watching us?”

“Of course! My eyes are always drawn to the brightest stars, battlefield or not.”

“I think,” Edelgard adds dryly, “he means you watched and didn’t _help_.”

Claude makes an mock-affronted noise. “I helped plenty. Look at my quiver! Practically empty!”

“Enough,” Jeralt says, too tired to sound sharp. Nonetheless, he still catches their attention, all three quieting like chastened puppies.

He offers a hand and pulls her up, his eyes scanning her face like he’s looking for something.

Dimitri clears his throat, bowing. “I apologize for our disrespect,” he says. “We are incredibly grateful for your assistance in this matter.”

Her father looks like he wants to say something, but pauses when a distant bellow echoes through the forest. He grimaces. “That’s… not who I think it is, is it?”

“CAPTAIN JERALT!” comes the voice again.

A man, not particularly tall, but broad in shoulder and chest, practically sprints full-tilt at them.

Jeralt looks rather like he’d rather be pretty much anywhere else, and heaves a long-suffering sigh. “Of course it is.”

“Captain Jeralt!” the man shouts, voice no less loud now that he’s three feet away instead of thirty. “It is I, Alois! Surely you remember me!”

“Right,” her father says. “Good to see you. Also, goodbye.”

Alois protests, vocally, and with great volume, and then three more voices are involved, and suddenly Byleth finds herself being invited to the Garreg Mach Monastery.

She says yes.

* * *

With both leader and second-in-command leaving for the monastery, her father’s mercenaries don't have much in the way of options other than following. Alois seems less than elated, and Jeralt himself just looks tired.

“You’ve been before?” Byleth asks, when she and her father are alone.

He sighs through his nose. “It was… a long time ago. And I left for good reason.”

She cocks her head. “Was it because of me?”

He doesn’t answer, but pats her head. “Come on. We’re keeping them waiting.”

He leaves to instruct the rest of the mercenaries to pack up camp while they go on ahead with the Knights of Seiros. Their scuffle with the bandits only left a few wounded, and even then the injuries are minor. Byleth allows a flash of pride.

“_You’re not close, but you respect each other_,” a familiar voice observes.

Byleth pauses, glancing from side to side. There’s a few mercenaries milling around, but none of them show sighs of hearing anything. Other than them, she’s alone.

“_Come now, you’re denser than a rock! You’re the only one that can hear me_.”

She blinks. “...Sothis.” She barely breathes the name, brow furrowing.

There’s a huff. “_Of course! Whom else_?”

Byleth sighs softly. “I thought you were a dream.”

Sothis sniffs. “_It’s certainly easier to talk to you then. It’s quite tiring, doing this.” Her voice trails off. “Even now, I’m already…_” She cuts off with a yawn.

Byleth waits, but the girl quiets.

* * *

Claude catches her eye first, winking and waving.

Jeralt is in a hushed conversation with one of the other knights, but looks up as she approaches. Dimitri and Edelgard follow suit, raising their heads from their own exchange.

“Ready to go?” Alois calls, and Byleth nods.

Claude grins. “I’ve been waiting for a chance to bend your ear,” he chirps. “It’s not every day we meet a warrior of your skill.”

“We won’t be with her for long if you annoy her into leaving,” Edelgard ripostes, and Dimitri quickly covers his laugh with his fist.

Claude covers his heart with his hand like he’s been dealt a fatal blow, turning his gaze back to Byleth. “My charm isn’t enough for you?”

Byleth tilts her head. “...You’re fine,” she offers, and the smile she receives in turn is brilliant.

Edelgard huffs, but she’s smiling. “If you spoil him like that, he’ll never leave you alone.”

“She’ll adore my company before long.” He bows dramatically, golden cape fluttering. “Claude von Riegan, heir to House Riegan, of Alliance fame.” He glances up at her, eyes glittering. “But you seemed to know that already, didn’t you?” His smile is still bright, but there’s a colder edge to it, now. His eyes are calculating.

Ah. Her dream.

“News travels quickly, especially among mercenaries,” Jeralt says, saving her from a reply. He turns to the other students. “Don’t think I don’t know that I’ve got the prince of Faerghus and the Adrestian empress-to-be in my camp.”

The two in question quickly look away, Dimitri clearing his throat awkwardly.

“Shall we get moving?” he suggests, ducking his head to avoid eye contact.

Byleth blinks. Empress and king.

Something tells her that those titles can’t coexist.

* * *

Things become more comfortable once they’re on the road. Her father leads, the knights falling into step behind him, with Alois talking more at him than with him.

Claude’s eyes lose that calculating chill, although Byleth doesn’t forget it. He smiles easily and often, chattering almost aimlessly, but somehow always directing questions towards her. While Jeralt had saved her from answering him earlier, it seems like Claude hasn’t forgotten. His queries are lighthearted and innocuous—her lifestyle, her past jobs—but she can’t help but think that he’s using her answers to build a bigger picture.

Byleth answers as honestly—and briefly—as she can. She’s not sure she wants to divulge the fact that she dreams of him—of all of them— and that some of those dreams involve intimacy and others involve death.

Somewhere in the back of her mind, Sothis stirs. “_Wise_,” she mumbles. “_For once_.”

The girl falls back into a slumber before Byleth can muster a response, and she nearly misses Claude’s next question for her trouble.

“What’s it like, being a mercenary?” he asks. The question catches the attention of the other two students, and suddenly there are three inquisitive stares aimed at her.

“...Tiring,” she manages. “There’s no room for error when you fight for a living.”

Claude sighs. “Training everyday, huh? Sounds exhausting.”

“You’re _supposed_ to train everyday,” Dimitri points out. “You’re a student.” 

Edelgard rolls her eyes. “Do you truly believe that he follows the regimen?”

“I _would_,” Claude defends, “if it were any good.”

The three distract themselves with meaningless bickering, and the sight of them bantering and arguing without heat in their words fills Byleth with some sort of nostalgia.

* * *

She remembers being born a man, lying on a grassy plain and dozing. There’s a warm body next to her, and she doesn’t bother opening her eyes to nestle closer—

She remembers storming a city. There’s a knight towering over her, a massive scythe in his grip, the terrible visage of a skull peering down at her. A battle rages around them, but he only has eyes for her.

“Fight me,” he rasps. “Only one of us will move forward.”

She levels her sword at him. The blade in her hands is a terrible thing, carved from bone and burning in her hands.

“I don’t want to kill you,” she says, clear even over the clamor around them.

The knight cocks his head. “You must,” he replies, then charges—

Byleth wakes up, alone, in a cold sweat. The small oil lantern at her side flickers restlessly, casting distorted shadows on the canvas of her tent.

No. She’s not quite alone. “_It’s getting worse_,” Sothis observes. “_How do you feel_?”

Her mouth is dry. “Fine,” she cracks out. She fumbles for her pack, grabbing her canteen.

Sothis scoffs. “_Lying won’t do you any good_.”

She ignores the girl, tipping back the canteen and gulping down the cool water.

Even after the drink, she’s still jittery, nerves alight from a non-existent fight, and she throws off her light blanket, staggering to her feet. She ducks out of her tent, blinking rapidly as her eyes adjust to the meager pre-dawn light.

The sky is just starting to lighten, rich blue tinged with pink. A good time to be alone.

Except she’s not.

Edelgard is standing on the edge of camp, looking to the horizon. Her hair is loose, ribbons wrapped around her hand as she ponders the sky.

It’s not in Byleth’s nature to start a conversation when none needs to be had, so she simply observes for a few moments. The quiet is calming, only the faint rustle of leaves and early birdsong filtering through the air—

She remembers it being quiet, somehow. The battle seems so far away. Edelgard is on her knees, head bowed. Her breaths are terribly loud, broken gasps and choked out shudders of pain.

“Do it,” she rasps. “Please. If it’s anyone, I want it to be you.”

Byleth is raising her sword.

“Ah,” Edelgard says. “I didn’t expect anyone else to be up at this hour.”

Byleth blinks. The girl in front of her is Edelgard the student, in her clean-pressed uniform and straight-brushed hair—not the Edelgard of her dreams, all pained eyes and stalwart blade.

“Are you alright?” Pale eyes glance over her. “You're trembling.”

It takes a moment to find her voice. “I’m fine.”

It’s less believable every time she says it.

Edelgard doesn’t look particularly convinced, but neither is she particularly invested in Byleth’s wellbeing. She turns her cool gaze away, back to the horizon. “It’s nice,” she says, “when it’s like this. Alone, but not… empty.”

Empty. Byleth knows that feeling well. She’s been increasingly less empty of late, though. Her dreams. Sothis. She’s not quite sure she prefers it to her normal blankness.

The girl doesn’t seem to be waiting for a response, so Byleth stays silent, controlling her breathing until she’s certain her shaking has ceased entirely.

The silence is almost companionable, for being what it is. Next to Edelgard, it seems easier to simply… exist.

Eventually, the girl retreats back to her tent with a murmured goodbye, likely to catch an hour of rest before the morning truly comes.

Byleth stays rooted in place, watching the sky melt into gold.

Nothing good comes with the sun, she thinks.


	3. in which she meets her students

Stepping into monastery feels like… home.

It’s the closest description she can muster. Byleth never had a house or cottage, a soft bed to return to after a long day’s work. Just camp after camp, always moving, her father her only consistency.

But Garegg Mach is like returning to where she _belongs_.

Jeralt seems to feel the opposite, stiff and prickly as soon as he crosses the threshold.

His eyes flicker up. “Rhea,” he breathes.

She follows his gaze, up to a balcony. There’s a woman, looking down upon them. The sun behind her headdress makes it look like she’s part of heavens themselves, and—

Byleth remembers her, like so many others. She remembers—

A brilliant flash of light. Soldiers screaming in terror as the shadow descends on them, the earth quaking as the dragon lands.

_Rhea_.

Her father sighs. “Let’s get this over with,” he mutters, and Byleth sends one more glance to the sky before she follows him in.

The gates shut behind them with a sense of finality.

—

The students leave them just past the gate, escorted back to their dormitories by Alois. A small contingent of knights lead Byleth and Jeralt to the audience chamber.

Rhea is there, expression soft and warm, flanked by a scowling man in blue and white.

“Jeralt,” she says. “It has been many years.”

Her father bows stiffly. “Archbishop.”

Rhea turns her pale gaze to Byleth, head tilting. “Your child, I presume?”

It is only thanks to a lifetime of his company that Byleth catches the way her father tenses. “Yes,” he says easily. “Born some years after I left the monastery. We lost her mother to illness.

“My condolences,” Rhea replies gravely, face appropriately somber.

Something about her is… off, Byleth thinks. Like her expressions are calculated.

Like something that is simply pretending to be human.

Unbidden, the image of a roaring dragon surfaces in her mind. She restrains a shudder.

Rhea and her father continue talking, but the words slip past her mind. It’s impossible to concentrate; her head is pounding, thrumming like it’s ready to burst.

“_Oh dear_,” Sothis murmurs. “_What have you done now_?”

Despite everything, Byleth keeps her blank mask in place, staying perfectly still—

There’s… something. Something beneath her feet. It’s calling to her.

Her father sighs gustily, and it’s like the bubble of haze has popped. Suddenly she can think again, and Jeralt has his head tilted, looking exhausted.

“Of course, Archbishop,” he’s saying. “I suppose you’ll want me reinstated right away.”

She’s never heard him with that fatigue of defeat. Perhaps, she thinks, she’s watching her father lose for the first time.

Rhea smiles benevolently. “I’ll leave you two to get settled,” she says. “I hope to see you soon Jeralt. And you as well.” The last sentence she directs toward Byleth, meeting her eyes.

She was right, Byleth thinks. The archbishop’s expression is warm, but her eyes—

Her eyes are like glaciers.

She bows, respectfully deep, with a murmur of, “Archbishop.”

Apparently satisfied, Rhea takes her leave, the man in blue following at her heels. The few remaining knights follow, leaving them alone in the audience chamber.

Her father mutters a curse.

“After all these years…” he says, hands flexing.

Byleth knows what’s coming next. “We’re staying,” she says, less of a question and more of a confirmation.

Jeralt nods tightly. “And you’ll never believe what that blasted Alois told me he was going to do—”

“I’m going to teach here.”

He blinks, meeting her eyes for the first time for this whole exchange. “Yes,” he says slowly. “He… recommended you for a position. Rhea is undoubtedly discussing it with the rest of them right now.”

She nods. “I don’t mind,” she says. “Those three—they were nice.”

Jeralt is looking at her—_really_ looking at her now. “Where did you hear about the Riegan boy?” he finally asks. “Names and nobility aren’t things you usually pay attention to.”

She pauses. “I… don’t remember.”

In the back of her mind, Sothis huffs.

Something flashes in his eyes and he’s quiet for a moment before he sighs, then reaches to pat her head. “Okay,” he says. His voice is soft. “Be careful around here. I know you like those kids but… don’t trust anyone. Not right away.”

She nods, leaning into his hand like a cat asking for affection.

Jeralt smiles, just a little, and gives her hair one last ruffle. “I have to go to the knight’s quarters. Why don’t you take some time to explore? Maybe get something to eat. I’m sure Rhea will call us again soon enough.”

She nods again, then turns to leave.

“Byleth,” he calls, and she glances back. His expression is… wistful, perhaps. He hesitates. “...Your mother is buried here,” he says. “Later we’ll… visit her together.”

She takes a moment to find her voice. “Of course.”

—

The walk to the dining hall takes her past the home rooms.

She notices Claude first, lingering just outside the door that presumably leads to his class, if the banner that matches his cape in color is any indication. Dimitri is nearby, next to a man with an imposingly large figure.

Briefly, she wonders if she should make herself known, but the decision is made for her as Claude turns his head and catches her eye with a beam.

“Just the woman I wanted to see!” he chirps. His voice catches the attention of the others, and she even sees a couple heads poking out doorways to catch of glimpse of the ruckus.

Apparently caught, she inclines her head in greeting, then trots over with the barest of sighs and Claude beckons to her.

She hears Dimitri say, “Ah, Dedue, this is the mercenary I was telling you about—” before he’s drowned out by the boy in yellow.

“So, how are you liking the monastery?” he asks, posture open and easy.

Byleth starts to answer, “It’s fine,” when a girl with pink twin-tails abruptly barges in on the scene, flanked by a younger, serious-looking girl and a boy with the most horrendous purple bangs she’s ever seen—even including her father’s dreaded rat’s tail braid.

She doesn’t notice how manufactured Claude’s smile is until it melts into something genuine. “Hilda! Just in time! This is the mercenary that we brought back, the one—”

“The one that saved your incompetent life?” the purple-haired boy cuts in dryly. He turns to bow to her. “Apologies for any inconveniences our sorry excuse of a house leader may have caused. I am Lorenz Hellman Gloucester, of the noble house of Gloucester of the Lei—!”

“Oh, _enough_ of that Lorenz, you’re boring her to tears!” Hilda says. She clasps her hands in front of her and displays rounded puppy eyes. “Thank you for saving Claude! It’s so good to know that there’s dependable people like you around!”

“Dependable enough for you ‘delegate’ your work to her, I imagine,” the younger girl replies.

“You should respect your elders, little Lysithea,” Claude teases, and the girl scowls. He looks back up at Byleth, grinning widely.

The sudden wave of affection that blooms in her chest nearly knocks Byleth off her feet, but she keeps her face carefully blank.

“What’s this? A beautiful woman entered the monastery and no one bothered to tell me?” comes a voice, light and boyishly charming, followed by the sound of a smack and a yelp and a, “Do you _ever_ stop—?”

And suddenly the next few minutes are a whirlwind of introductions, more and more students peering out of the classroom. Dimitri, not to be outdone, hastily adds his own house to the mix, a fresh wave of young ones flooding into the courtyard, and eventually even Edelgard appears, bringing with her a veritable battalion of students.

And she remembers all of them. Just… flickers, at first, as they introduce themselves and she sees their faces for the first time. (“_Obviously not the first time_,” Sothis snorts.) But as they grow comfortable and catch glimpses of their fellow students and fall into painfully familiar banter and smiles, the visions crash down on her like a wave.

Her heart is hurting.

“_Easy, now_,” Sothis whispers. “_Don’t get overwhelmed_.”

Easier said than done of course.

She keeps… seeing them. Flashes, always so brief—sometimes they’re older, out of uniform and in armor instead, bloodied and hollow-eyed.

Sometimes dead.

It’s good, she thinks distantly, that the students are so distracted by one another. Perhaps they wouldn’t notice that she’d gone near catatonic.

Someone says something to her—Dimitri, perhaps, but she can’t cut through the haze fast enough to respond.

There’s a light touch, a hand on her arm, and she steps back reflexively.

“Wait—everyone, give her some space, you’re suffocating her.”

The chatter ceases.

“Pardon me,” she rasps. Her voice doesn’t sound like her own.

She takes a step back, then another, and then turns and starts walking.

“What’s her deal?” someone mutters behind her.

This is the first time she’s been to the monastery, yet her feet carry her to the dining hall like traveling a well-worn path. The further she gets from the students the more she can breathe, the more her mind clears.

It had been… too much.

There’s scarce few people around the cafeteria, at this odd hour. She grabs a plate without looking to see what it is and sits at an empty table, and swallows without tasting, staring at the grains in the wood of the table. She’s halfway done with her food before she’s interrupted.

“Do you mind if I join you?”

Byleth blinks, looking up. Dimitri is standing by the table, a tray loaded with food in his hands. He shifts his weight, as if bracing for a rejection.

“...Of course,” she murmurs, half a beat late.

He smiles at her as he set his tray down, sliding into the seat across from her. “I apologize for my classmates,” he begins, not even looking at his food. “I understand that they can be a little… overenthusiastic.”

She pauses, fork halfway to her mouth. “It’s fine,” she says. How many times has she said that, these past few days? Too many to count, and none of them true.

He laughs softly. “Still,” he says, “it was rather unfair to unleash them on you with so little warning.”

She hums noncommittally.

There’s a beat of silence before Dimitri clears his throat. “I never properly thanked you,” he says, “for saving my life.”

“It was nothing,” she replies, avoiding his eyes, so blue and earnest. She picks at her food, thick and tasteless on her tongue.

He stares at her steadily even as she refuses to meet his gaze. “Thank you,” he says. “I mean it. Did you ever get the wound checked out?”

“Yes,” she lies. She hadn’t. It had been minor—nothing worth wasting magic or resources over. The wound had long since scabbed over.

As if to spite her, a dull throb burns through her shoulder, and she resists the urge to scratch it.

He glances down. “Forgive my rudeness, but… something has been bothering me.”

She looks up at him and cocks her head, wordlessly prompting him to continue.

Dimitri hesitates. “Did you… save me because you knew I was the prince of Faerghus? I don’t mean to sound ungrateful,” he adds hastily. “I was simply wondering—since you seemed to know Claude’s status already—”

“No,” she replies simply. “It was… instinct.”

He blinks, meeting her eyes. “Really? You are… a much kinder person than I first took you for, to protect someone like that.” He flushes. “Not to say that I thought you were unkind to begin with—“

She’s not kind. But there’s no way to explain to him how she couldn’t stand to see him hurt, refused to let him die, not—not _again_?

“_Don’t think too hard_,” Sothis comments dryly.

“It was nothing,” she repeats, and continues to eat.

He looks conflicted, like he can’t decide whether to be relieved or concerned by her apathy.

“Right,” he says. “Nonetheless, thank you. Again.”

Apparently done speaking—or too awkward to continue—Dimitri starts to shovel food into his mouth like he’s forgotten that he’s had it until now.

Byleth continues eating at much more reserved pace, observing him between bites. He eats with a single-minded determination, although the speed doesn’t seem to detract from his manners much. She’s seen people finish meals as quickly as Dimitri is doing now, although never in proper company. It’s somehow… comforting, seeing him eat with such enthusiasm.

They finish at the same time, and he offers to take her tray as he stands. She murmurs her thanks, and Dimitri smiles encouragingly.

“Aha! There you are!” comes a familiar bellow. Alois crosses the hall in broad strides, grinning widely. “Getting settled already, eh? Lady Rhea asked me to find you!”

“...I see,” Byleth says. She bows shallowly to Dimitri. “Thank you,” she says, although she’s not quite sure why.

Dimitri blinks, apparently no more certain. “It was… nothing,” he offers. “You are quite welcome.”

She nods, then turns Alois, whose smile hasn’t dimmed the slightest.

“Come now!” he cheers, already halfway out the door. “The Archbishop awaits!”

She feels Dimitri’s gaze on her back until she turns the corner, stepping out of sight.

* * *

“Aw man, I can’t believe you scared her off!” Sylvain grouses, elbowing Felix in the side. “You _can_ turn off that glare of yours, can’t you?”

“Shut up.”

“_You_ scared her off with your terrible flirting,” Ingrid says accusingly.

“I honestly thought it was Caspar’s shouting that drove her away,” Lindhardt comments, tilting his head thoughtfully.

Caspar sputters. “Don’t pin this on me!” he bleats, and the groups descends into fresh round of bickering.

Claude glances around. “Did… anyone see where she went?”

“Towards the dining hall,” Raphael reports immediately.

Leonie snickers. “Of course you’d be able to tell,” she ribs affectionately.

Dimitri is already turning away. “I’ll check on her,” he says. “I’m… concerned. I hope she wasn’t too overwhelmed.”

“Mind yourself,” Edelgard warns. “She’s a guest of the monastery. Be sure to treat her with the proper respect.”

Claude mimes fanning himself with his hand. “Is it just me, or is it getting _awfully_ stuffy out here?”

Edelgard pins him with sharp look and he shrugs. By the time she looks back, Dimitri is gone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> somehow my master doc is already at 28 pages. how. why.  
also this chapter is filled with my greatest enemy--dialogue between more than two characters


	4. in which she gets a job

Alois leads her to the audience chamber. The guards at the door let them pass, and Alois steps in just long enough to bow before he winks at her and leaves.

Rhea is waiting for her, calm and collected. The man in robes is also present again, standing straight-backed, arms clasped neatly behind him.

“Welcome, my child,” the archbishop says, voice soft.

Byleth bows, lowering her gaze. Those pale eyes unnerve her, like she’s a caged animal being studied.

The man’s face is marred by a deep frown, fern-green eyes slightly narrowed.

“Allow me to introduce my advisor,” Rhea says. “He is my most trusted confidant and a professor at the academy—”

“Cichol,” Byleth murmurs, barely audible. She blinks. She’s never heard that name before.

Rhea freezes. Next to her, the man draws a sharp breath.

Byleth clears her throat, wondering if she’s committed some faux-pas. “Apologies,” she says. “I’m not sure what came over me.”

There’s a beat of stiff silence before Rhea’s features smooth over to a pleasant smile. “Of course,” she says. “You’ve had a long day.” She's perfectly amicable, expression gentle, but the man next to her is tense enough to snap. “This is Seteth. I trust that he will be able to answer any questions you have about the monastery.”

Byleth bows, and Seteth returns it with a tight incline of his head. His hair shifts with the movement, he reaches up to smooth it back with one hand, careful and meticulous.

Somehow, she remembers his hair being soft.

She’s jerked out of her distraction by the arrival of her father. His face is carefully neutral, matched only by her own.

Seteth straightens, once again stern and impassive.

“I thought we might discuss the matter of your residency here,” Rhea begins, addressing both of them. “As Jeralt is being reinstated as a Knight of Seiros, I thought appropriate that you would be offered a position here as well.” She level her gaze at Byleth, eyes sea-glass pale and just as sharp. “Alois spoke highly of your skills, and thus, we have decided to offer you a position as professor and head of one of the three houses of the academy.”

One of the three houses—she has to choose. An ultimatum.

“You’ve met the house leaders,” Rhea continues. “Edelgard leads the Black Eagles, Dimtri leads the Blue Lions, and Claude the Golden Deer. All are lords of their respective territories—becoming the head of any class would garner a significant amount of influence.”

It’s a pitch, that much Byleth can tell. For some reason, the archbishop is almost desperate to keep her here.

Jeralt glances between her and Rhea, mouth set in a thin line.

“Thank you, archbishop,” Byleth says, slow and level. “I appreciate your offer, and am willing to become a professor. However, I do not believe I am fit to become head of a house.”

Rhea blinks. Byleth has a feeling that the archbishop is rather used to getting her way.

“Truly?” Rhea says.

Byleth breathes in. Words have never been her strong suit. Difficult, even at the best of times. Using them to justify a decision she made on a whim to the most powerful person in the country would be difficult for the most silver-tongued orator.

It would help to know why, exactly, Rhea is so adamant to have her.

“I am a simple mercenary,” she begins cautiously. “I don’t know enough about the intricacies of the politics of this country to adequately attend to the students’ concerns. I would be able to teach them about tactics and battle, but as a confidant, I would be sorely lacking. I believe that someone more experienced and politically-minded would serve as a better head of house.”

She exhales sharply. It’s the most words she’s spoken in one sitting in… perhaps her whole lifetime.

Jeralt looks impressed—Rhea less so.

“I see,” the archbishop says, folding her hands neatly in front of her. “I cannot doubt your measurement of your own abilities. While we must find a new head, I am glad the monastery will not be bereft of your teachings.”

“I am eager to be of service,” Byleth says carefully, bowing.

“Then Seteth will see you to your quarters tonight, after supper. May the goddess be with you.” Rhea inclines her head, which is apparently a dismissal, and her father turns to leave.

She trots after him, sending one final glance at Rhea and Seteth—

The archbishop’s eyes are freezing.

Byleth shivers.

* * *

Claude is… outside of the audience chamber, for some reason, chattering away to the guard at the door. He smiles when he sees her, then winks before turning back to the guard.

She follows her father in silence for a few moments, waiting for a stretch of empty hallway to come up before she mutters, “Rhea is scary.”

Jeralt barks out a startled laugh. “Terrifying,” he agrees. “And she hasn’t changed a bit, either.”

He’s relaxed noticeably, now that they’re out of her sight. He sighs gustily and rubs the back of his neck.

“Saving those brats was more trouble than it was worth,” he grouses.

Byleth pins him with a blank stare—one that she knows he’ll recognize the disapproval in.

He grimaces. “Don’t look at me like that—you know I’m joking.”

She huffs, a tiny puff of air escaping her mouth. “You shouldn’t joke about things like that.”

Her father sighs again, long-suffering and resigned, then nudges her with a shoulder. “Speaking of those kids, are you sure you’re up for teaching?”

She blinks owlishly at him. “Yes.”

He cocks his head. “Really? You’ve never shown interest in this sort of thing. I’m surprised you agreed so readily, even if you rejected the head position.”

“It… felt right,” she says. “And I couldn’t choose.”

Jeralt makes a low sound of acknowledgement, absentmindedly adjusting the shield slung over his shoulder. “As long as your prepared to put in the work,” he concedes, “I’m sure you can manage.”

They reach the courtyard, and Jeralt waves her off as he makes his way towards the knight’s quarters. “I’ll see you at supper. Stay outta trouble.”

* * *

There’s still several hours to kill before supper, so Byleth wanders, no destination in mind. Her feet carry her past the dining hall, down to a deep, rich, blue pond flanked by a greenhouse.

The patter of approaching footsteps makes her glance back. Claude is jogging to catch up to her, waving as she turns. “A fine day, isn’t it, Teach?” Claude says, grinning.

Her stride falters for a moment as she blinks up at him. Surely Rhea hadn’t announced her new position already—?

She remembers Claude outside the audience chamber, chatting with the guard at the door.

Byleth exhales softly. “Eavesdropper.” Her voice comes out fonder than she means to.

He huffs with mock-offense, cocking his head to look down on her. “Any schemer worth their salt should be master of gathering information,” he says. “The basics of which are, admittedly, eavesdropping.”

The breath she releases isn’t quite a laugh, but Claude looks immensely pleased with himself.

“You’re full of surprises, you know,” he informs her. “Far too interesting for your own good. After all, not many would turn down the opportunity to have the ear of the next king or emperor.”

Her expression smoothes over, and she makes a noncommittal noise. “It didn’t seem right,” she offers. “I’m just a mercenary.”

Claude hums thoughtfully, stretching his arms up and tucking his hands behind his head. “Couldn’t even find it in your heart to pick little ol’ me?”

“I’m still teaching you,” she points out, and he pouts.

“It’s not the same,” he says, sighing dramatically. “I wanted to squirrel you away all for myself—if only to see those other two squirm with jealousy.” He smiles brightly. “I bet your skills would come in handy for plenty of my plans.”

“Troublemaker,” she says, the barest hint of exasperation creeping into her voice.

He winks. “_Schemer_,” he corrects. “Or tactician, if you’re feeling particularly kind.”

She raises her brows the smallest fraction, fixing him with a blank look until he pouts.

She slows her pace as the cobblestone under her feet turns to wood, and finally stops at the edge of the dock. She looks up at the sky, the clouds faintly dappled with gold and pink as the sun begins its descent.

“...I like this place,” she says softly.

Claude blinks. “The monastery? It’s nice—”

She shakes her head. “Here,” she says. “The pond.” She hesitates. “I… like fishing,” she adds.

It seems like she’s stunned him into silence before he huffs a laugh. “Full of surprises,” he says. “Wait here just a moment, would you?”

She cocks her head but nods all the same, watching him as he scampers off to talk to the groundskeeper. When he returns, he’s brandishing two fishing poles, with a small bucket of worms dangling from his arm.

“A welcome gift,” he says with a wink. “Or you could call it buttering up our new professor.”

She takes the offered pole, weighing it in her hands thoughtfully, then plucks a worm from the bucket and hooks it with practiced ease. Claude’s only just wrangled his bait into place as she casts her line, the float bobbing peacefully in the calm waters.

She lowers herself to sit, feet dangling over the edge, the wood of the dock worn comfortably smooth with age. Claude mirrors her, sitting close enough that the edges of their coats brush against each other. He seems content to fish in silence despite his earlier eagerness for chatter.

His nearness is… comfortable. Familiar, like his name was. She glances at him out of the corner of her eye and—

It’s the light, perhaps. Maybe the exhaustion of the day is setting in—but for just a moment, he looks older, his jaw a little broader, his eyes a little more tired.

She blinks and it dissipates, and Claude is once again smooth-faced and bright-eyed.

She turns her attention back to the pond, but the image lingers in her mind.

* * *

They fish until the bell tolls for supper-time, Byleth’s basket significantly more bountiful than Claude’s.

They hand off their catch to the groundskeeper and make their way to the dining hall, Claude restarting his amiable chatter. He tells her about his house members—names that ring with familiarity, flashes of faces flickering in her mind, and she gently rejects his offer to dine with him, intending to meet up with her father.

They part at the door, spotting Jeralt’s distinct orange tunic among the crowd of black uniforms, Alois—who is laughing uproariously— and a few other knights by him. She picks her way through the sea of students, sliding across from him.

Her father grimaces when he sees her. He already looks exhausted.

“Aha! And the lady of the hour!” Alois bellows. “I knew Lady Rhea would agree!”

She blinks. “Ah,” she offers. “...Thank you.”

“Saved you a plate, kid,” Jeralt says, pushing a tray of food towards her. It smells good—rich and a little spicy. “I’ll admit, it’s better than field rations.”

She hadn’t been paying attention the last time she’d eaten, too overwhelmed to care, then too focused on Dimitri to notice. But the food is… good. Hot and savory, a far cry from the bland, dry rations the mercenaries eat on the road.

She takes her time, focusing diligently on the plate in front of her, occasionally glancing up at her father, who makes a wry face everytime Alois makes a joke.

The chatter of the hall starts to dim, and Byleth pauses in her meal, looking to the door.

Seteth is striding purposefully towards her, expression flat and cold.

“_Oh my_,” Sothis sighs. “_He looks awfully irritated. Whatever did you do to him_?”

He bows shortly as he reaches the table. “My apologies for the interruption,” he says stiffly, “but I’ve come to escort the professor to her quarters.”

Jeralt’s brows inch up. “Evening’s pretty young for a curfew,” he says dryly.

“It is simply a matter of making sure the professor has an opportunity to get settled,” Seteth replies coolly. “There’s also the topic of reviewing the curriculum and her responsibilities as a professor.”

Her father catches her eye and shrugs. ‘I tried,’ he mouths, which Seteth catches, if the twitch of the man’s brow is anything to go by.

“If you would, Professor,” he says, hands folded neatly at the small of his back.

Byleth sends a final, forlorn glance at her half-finished food and sadly slides the remains back towards her father before she rises. She bows. “Father. Alois. Thank you for the meal.”

Alois waves her off with a beaming grin, Jeralt signing ‘good luck,’ with a two-fingered salute, and then she’s trotting at Seteth’s heels as the man leads her out of the dining hall.

The spring evening air is cool and brisk compared to the crowded hall, and she inhales deeply, adjusting the loose sleeves of her coat.

“Your responsibilities are great in number and importance,” Seteth says. “I acknowledge that your circumstances are… unique, to say the least, but I expect you to uphold the standards of Garreg Mach.” He’s not looking at her, staring straight ahead with a furrowed brow and tense jaw.

She cocks her head. “Have I done something wrong?” she asks, and Seteth flinches like her words are a physical blow.

There’s a beat of silence. “I don’t understand your meaning,” he says. The way his words are clipped short and the rigid set of his shoulders says otherwise.

“You’re wary of me,” she continues. “I understand why. But I don’t understand the—” She struggles for a moment— “_animosity_ you have for me.”

Seteth halts in his tracks, and she nearly runs into his back.

He’s looking at her now, finally, and the coldness in his expression is exchanged for what seems to be complete bafflement.

“You—” he starts, then cuts himself off. He exhales sharply, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You don’t believe that you’ve done anything to concern me?”

She blinks. “No.”

Sothis snickers.

“...I see,” he says. He’s silent for a few moments, mouth pressed in a line of concentration. “I suppose the fault is mine, then.” He makes a low, frustrated sound in the back of his throat. “I apologize for my shortness. Please understand your situation is particularly… vexing for me. However, I will make an effort to be more welcoming.”

She inclines her head, not sure if thanking him would be the proper response.

Seteth frowns, but it’s less harsh. “If you would,” he says, and turns and continues walking.

* * *

Her new quarters are… cozy. Just large enough to comfortably fit the bed, desk, and dresser, the carpet plush under her feet.

Seteth is explaining, at length, her duties and the topics she is expected to cover. She winces when she hears the date of her first seminar—closer than she’d expected. It’s Friday, and her first class is Sunday.

“Seminars are not mandatory participation,” Seteth says when he sees her reaction. “However, it will be many students first impression of you. I expect you to prepare your materials thoroughly.”

She huffs out a soft breath. “I understand.”

His gaze flickers down to her before promptly avoiding her eyes. “As advisor to the archbishop and a fellow professor, you may come to me with your questions or concerns. Your fellow professors will also be available to you, should you need it.”

“...Thank you,” she says.

He nods, bowing at the waist. “I’ll leave you for the evening. Please use your time wisely.”

She bows shallowly in return, eyes following his back as he leaves. The heavy door swings shut behind him.

She exhales gustily, glancing at the desk. There’s a sheaf of parchment lying on top, a quill and a bottle of ink right beside.

“Right,” she murmurs. “Might as well get to work.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> just wanted to pop into the notes real quick to say thank you so much to everyone who’s kudos or commented—it real drives up the ol motivation when i get an email from ao3. the next chapter is well on its way!


	5. in which she teaches

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in this house we love our video game dad

A sharp rap against her door startles her out of her work.

She cocks her head. “Come in.”

Her father peeks into her room. The sky is dark behind him, evening long melted into night. “Burning the midnight oil, eh kid?”

She blinks, rubbing her eyes. “How late is it?”

“Sun went down a few hours ago. Most of the students are in their dorms.”

His eyes flicker down to her ink-stained hands and messy scrawl, arching a brow.

“Are you sure you’re up for this?” Jeralt asks. “You’ll be stuck with a room full of brats for at least an hour, and you’ll be talking for most of it.”

Her head drops. “Help,” she says.

Jeralt snorts, leaning his hip against the desk to look down at her notes. “Remember,” he says, “at the end of the day, you’re teaching them how to survive. A lot of them are nobles, so they’ll all have a decent amount of training. Probably got taught fancy tactics and sword polishing techniques, but I’d bet they never stepped a foot out of the castle grounds before they came here. Those commoner kids probably didn’t get out too much either, even if they’re more used to labor. So what separates us from them?”

She pauses, outwardly blank but mind scrambling, then puts her quill to paper, scratching out near-illegible notes.

Her father chuckles, reaching to ruffle her hair. “It’s been a long time since you’ve relied on me like this. The last time you asked for help was before you could lift a sword properly.”

She glances up at him.

Words are difficult. They were difficult with the archbishop, and they’re difficult with her father, but… he’s worth the effort.

She doesn’t so much as pick her words as sift through them, like burying her hands in sand. “I’ve… always relied on you,” she manages. “I don’t ask often, but you’re always there when I need you.”

Jeralt’s expression isn’t quite surprised, but it’s close. He sighs, face softening. “I’m your father,” he says, painfully fond. “It’s my job.”

She shifts in her chair so she’s leaning into his side, soaking up his warmth. His arm rests over her shoulders, a comforting, familiar weight.

“Don’t work yourself too hard,” he says, drawing back reluctantly. “I have to head back to the barracks before Alois takes it upon himself to come find me. Get some sleep soon, okay?”

She nods and watches as he leaves, sending one final smile back at her before the door shuts.

* * *

She remembers molding children in her image, breathing life into them. They share her features, hair like the forests and eyes like the gems buried in the earth, their ears pointed and teeth sharp.

The eldest is a girl, with hair like starlight and eyes like polished jade.

She is perfect. She is _immaculate_.

She remembers naming her—

_Rhea_.

* * *

Her quarters are quiet.

Byleth takes a deep breath, pulse fluttering, rapid and unsteady, like a suffocating bird. The sheets are tangled around her legs, her back damp with sweat as she pushes herself up. “Sothis,” she whispers, weak and shaky. Then, slightly more composed, “Sothis, are you there?”

The girl shimmers into existence, perched on the edge of the desk, her brilliant green eyes avoiding her gaze.

It takes a moment for Byleth to fight through her dizzy haze and find the right words. “How much do you know about this?” she manages, rubbing at her eyes.

“Sometimes more, sometimes less,” comes the reply. “You have a tendency to complicate things. And I have a feeling that I’m… not as strong as I once was, bound to you like this.”

Sothis hops off the desk but never touches the floor, floating a few inches above the ground. “I know that events were not supposed to proceed in this way,” she continues. “You’ve lived this life dozens of times. Hundreds, perhaps. Little things change, but they follow the same stories. But this time…” She sighs. “The Divine Pulse… cracked, perhaps. Things are slipping through.”

“My dreams,” Byleth murmurs.

Sothis hums. “I imagine,” she says, “that if you remembered everything all at once, you would go mad with it.”

She’s already going mad, Byleth doesn’t say. She’s fracturing at the edges, pieces snapping off whenever she so much as looks at one of the students in the eye. There’s no solace in sleep anymore.

Her head hangs low, her breathing shaky. “Sothis,” she says. Her voice is very small. “I’m tired.”

The girl’s eyes are soft with sympathy. “I know.”

Almost hesitant, she drifts closer, until she’s at her bedside. She raises a cautious hand to pet Byleth’s hair, intangible but faintly warm.

“You should sleep,” she says. “I will… stay with you, and do my best to keep the dreams at bay.”

Byleth exhales sharply, falling back onto her pillows. Exhaustion pulls her under quickly, but in the brief moments before unconsciousness, she hears Sothis humming.

* * *

Saturday passes in a blur. Byleth holes herself up in her room, leaving only for meals. She throws herself into her work, half because of the impending date of her seminar and half for the distraction. Sothis is her only company, the girl hovering behind her and commenting on her poor handwriting at every opportunity.

She learns during lunch that her father’s mercenaries arrived at the church, and that Seteth is scrambling to get them accommodated. She feels a brief pang of sympathy for the man, thinks, _he’s always been so overworked_, and then banishes the train of thought before she can wonder where it came from.

Jeralt makes a brief appearance late in the evening, just to make sure that she hadn’t already lost her mind from the work, before telling her that he’d been gone for the rest of the week on a training excursion with the other knights.

She wilts visibly at the news, and he huffs fondly.

“I’ll be back before you know it,” he reassures her. “And you’ll be fine.”

Had she been anyone else, she might have pouted, but instead she nods.

The corner of his mouth quirks up, and he ruffles her hair. “Take care of yourself,” he says. “Don’t let those brats run you down.”

Her expression softens and she nods again. “...Come back safe,” she says.

He smiles crookedly. “I always do.”

She sees him off to the stables and watches as he rides away.

When she retires for the night, something in her heart hurts.

* * *

Her sleep is dreamless, for once. When she wakes, Sothis is exhausted, barely stirring as she prepares for her class.

She shuffles through her notes as she walks through the halls, trying to find the room that Seteth had assigned her. When she finds it, there's barely minutes before the seminar is set to start, and the students had already found their way to their seats.

Her first seminar is surprisingly full. She spots the irritable amber-eyed boy from the Blue Lions, alongside his red-haired friend, and Claude is shepherding in a blue-haired girl with bags under her eyes. There’s a boy she recognizes from the Black Eagles who seems to be already dozing off, accompanied by a girl with long waves of oak-brown hair. Seteth is leaning against the wall near the back, arms crossed and brow furrowed, apparently listening in.

She breathes in, then clears her throat. Immediately, the room quiets, half a dozen pairs of eyes focused on her—the boy from the Black Eagles is still sleeping, apparently.

“Welcome,” she manages, and nearly winces. Her voice sounds flat and rehearsed. “I am Byleth Eisner. I will be your tactics professor.”

She swallows, steadying her breathing. “I am not a knight,” she says, low and even. “I cannot teach you codes of chivalry, or honorable battle. I’m here to teach you how to survive a conflict at any cost.”

She’s caught their interest, if only a little—Seteth in particular, judging by the way his eyes narrow.

“In any war, there are opposing ideals. There is no such thing as the right side—only yours. War does not discriminate against your nobility or your ambitions. That is why you learn to fight.”

“You were a mercenary, weren’t you?” comes a voice. “Kinda bold to lecture about nobility and ideals.”

She blinks. So the boy hadn’t been sleeping.

“I was,” she answers. “Which is exactly why I know how war functions. I have fought battles under every banner, on every side, with no stakes other than my own life, and there is a single consistency—the strong survive. The weak fall.”

Claude leans forward, eyes glittering. She truly has their attention now.

“There is no such thing as a noble war,” she continues. “The battlefield is a terrible place. When you fight, you do not fight to further your cause. You fight to survive it.”

The amber-eyed boy—names, _names_—_Felix_ looks approving. The terrified girl looks… more terrified. Seteth’s narrow-eyed glare couldn’t look more reproachful if he tried.

“So are we to cast aside any pretense of dignity and fight like animals?” Dorothea is the one to speak now, mouth set in a tight line.

Byleth exhales slowly. “No,” she says. “You simply need to… re-evaluate.

“People do not give their lives for noble causes. They don’t fight for the good of the world, for nameless masses. They fight for their family, their loved ones, themselves—they fight for selfish reasons.” She pauses, eyes flickering over each students’ face. “Selfishness,” she says, “is not necessarily a sin.”

The silence is enraptured.

Her glances at the clock and she restrains a sigh. Time is passing sluggishly.

She glances down at her notes and prays she wrote enough to fill the time.

* * *

She does. Apparently, she underestimated how many times she would have to pause for questions, even if not all of them were particularly relevant.

She doesn’t fault them for it—it’s natural for them to be curious about the mysterious mercenary that arrived not even days prior and was suddenly filling the position of professor. She’s answering the final question—her favorite food (she doesn’t have one), asked by Sylvain— when the bell tolls and the room fills with chatter.

“Ah,” she says. “Claude, would you stay a moment?”

Sylvain crows out a mocking, “Oooh,” only to receive a swift kick to his shins for his troubles, delivered by a scowling Felix.

“Of course, Teach,” Claude chirps back, unfazed, and flashes a reassuring smile to Marianne when she sends him a worried glance.

The classroom empties out quickly, and Claude leans his hip against the desk, head tilted to the side.

Byleth hesitates. “Do you happen to know,” she begins slowly, “who were assigned as the heads of the houses?”

She doesn’t know why, but something about that had been… bothering her, eating away at the corner of her mind. Like her balance had been thrown off.

Claude blinks, apparently not expecting gossip. “Well,” he says, “Hanneman is ours—he hasn’t stopped bothering Lysithea and Marianne since Friday. Dorothea mentioned something about seeing Manuela more often, so it’s safe to say the Black Eagles are covered.”

“And the Blue Lions?” she prompts.

He pulls a dramatically thoughtful expression, folding his hands behind his head as he looks skyward. “Last I heard, Felix was awfully excited to be sparring with Jeritza.”

She blinks. “Jeritza,” she echoes.

Claude makes a low, affirmative sound. “Jeritza von Hrym. He’s the fencing instructor—I’ve heard he’s one of the best. Might even give you a run for your money.” He winks. “But don’t worry. I have faith that you’d prevail.”

She only half hears him, preoccupied by the way something seems to slot itself into place in her mind. “Do you know where he is?”

He cocks his head. “I’ve only ever seen him at the training grounds,” he replies, “but I think he has a fencing seminar before supper.”

“I see,” she says, staring down at the desk. “Thank you, Claude. You may go.”

He raises a brow but leaves with a dainty, shallow bow.

As soon as the doors shut behind him, she mouths the name again—_Jeritza_—and—

A woman is crying, on her knees and head lowered. There’s a man cradled in her lap, pale hair strewn about, gray eyes glassy.

“Emile,” she whispers, tears glittering as they drip off her jaw and fall onto his cheeks.

Byleth sucks in a sharp breath, fingers digging into the wood of her desk until she feels the ache in her bones from the pressure.

“All it took was a name, this time,” Sothis observes, materializing at her shoulder. “Normally they only come with the person, or in your sleep.”

Byleth nods, closing her eyes. Her forehead is damp with sweat, hands clammy and shaking.

Sothis makes a soft sympathetic noise, lingering a breath away until her grip finally relaxes, and she wipes the sweat from her brow.

“This Jeritza must be awfully important,” the girl muses, chin perched in one hand.

Byleth is silent for a moment. Her tongue feels heavy in her mouth. “I killed him, I think,” she rasps. “Will kill. Have killed. I don’t know.”

Sothis sighs, draping herself over the desk like a cat. “Honestly,” she complains, even though there’s no bite to her words, “you are the most troublesome mortal I’ve ever come across.”

It takes longer than she’d like to admit to gather her bearings and steady herself.

She collects her sparse notes, tucking the folder under her arm, and leaves the room.

“Where are you going?” Sothis asks.

“Training grounds,” Byleth replies shortly. “I’m going to see him.”

The girl sighs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *checks what i have written for the next chapter*  
*sighs and adds the jeritza/byleth tag*
> 
> im a broken record but thank you so much to everyone who commented! im really glad you guys are enjoying this fic! :3


	6. in which she learns

She does not, in fact, find Jeritza at the training grounds. She does find two extremely enthusiastic boys trading blows with bare fists, hollering gleefully at each other while a couple onlookers cheer, and she takes a moment to identify them—Raphael and Caspar, observed by Leonie and Hilda, the latter of which appears to be, oddly, cheering for Caspar—before beating a hasty retreat before anyone notices her.

She sighs through her nose, hands flexing at her sides. Sothis had drifted not long after she left the classroom, apparently still worn from fending off the dreams, so she’s well and truly alone.

She doesn’t want to be.

She rubs the back of her neck and heads back to the training grounds.

She lingers at the gate, watching the boys spar.

‘Spar’ might be generous. Tussling, maybe. In the time that she hadn’t been watching, Raphael had managed to wrestle Caspar to the ground and is currently sitting on his back as the smaller boy flounders uselessly, the girls howling with laughter behind them.

Hilda sees her first, if her bright call of, “Oh, Professor!” is anything to go by.

Raphael lumbers to his feet and Caspar springs up, bristling like an offended cat, before he notices her as well, and his face splits into an excited grin.

“Yo, Professor! Here to spar?”

She shakes her head, and the boy deflates.

“I’m just… here to wait for Jeritza’s seminar,” she says. “Please, continue.”

She skirts around the edge of the arena, finding a bench to sit on as she observers the students. She catches Leonie sending her dubious glances from across the grounds, brow furrowed and frowning, until Hilda elbows her in the side and she returns her attention to the fight.

Caspar seems rather… ineffective against Raphael, by virtue of the latter being about three times his size.

Hilda hollers, “His _knees_, go for his _knees_, Linhardt covered this!” and the boy kicks out sharply—just a little too low. The blow lands on Raphael’s shins instead, who winces, and then promptly picks up Caspar and slings him over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

Caspar flails wildly, and Raphael spins with childish glee, whirling around until the smaller boy wheezes out a plea for mercy.

Caspar is dumped onto the ground in an undignified sprawl, groaning. Hilda boos from the sideline as Leonie cackles.

Their easy camaraderie makes Byleth warm, somehow. Just by watching them, she feels equal parts fond and… lonely. Like something’s missing.

Caspar rolls onto his back, eagle-spread in the dirt, and sighs gustily. “I lost,” he groans. “Again.”

“We’re well aware,” Hilda sniffs.

Byleth watches as Caspar scrambles to his feet to start another round, listens to the girls jeer from the sidelines. She feels like an outsider looking in, and it feels _wrong_.

Students begin to trickle in in preparation for Jeritza’s seminar, and Hilda wrinkles her nose before herding her classmates out of the training grounds, leaving Caspar to scramble after them.

Dimitri arrives first, shadowed by Dedue. He catches her eye and smiles, and Dedue gives her a nod of acknowledgement. The rest of the Blue Lions filter in—Mercedes and Annette stumble through the gates, heads bowed as they giggle in a whispered conversation; Ingrid drags Felix and Sylvain, the latter looking significantly less enthused to be attending his second seminar of the day; Ashe hurries in, nearly tripping in his haste. There are a few more students she only vaguely recognizes, faces blurred into the crowd.

She knows Jeritza when she sees him—he arrives last, striding through the gates just as the bell begins to toll, perfectly purposeful, unlike her own clumsy urgency. Any lingering chatter quiets immediately.

He’s… young. Not much older than the students, if that—maybe even younger than she is. He’s tall and broad shouldered under his many layers of clothing, and what little of his face that is uncovered by his porcelain mask smooth and youthful.

“I am Jeritza von Hrym, head of the Blue Lions and the fencing instructor.” He begins without preamble, tone flat in a way that almost mirrors her own. But where Byleth is awkward, Jeritza is cold.

“The first rule of swordsmanship,” he continues, “is to not get hit. The second is to hit your opponent.”

There’s a twitter of laughter, but Jeritza doesn’t pause. “The longer a bout goes on, the more time there is for you to make a mistake. You’re goal is always to kill the enemy as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

The laughter stops.

“Can’t we just disarm them?” someone pipes up nervously. The boy, silver-haired and freckled—Ashe, she recognizes—shrinks back when all eyes turn to him.

“What will you do when the enemy picks up their sword again?” Jeritza says. His voice is completely devoid of emotion—even disdain would be easier to hear. “How many times would you disarm them until you make a mistake? Until they kill you? I doubt they will do you the same kindness as to return the favor.”

Ashe flushes and looks away ashamedly, lacking a response.

“Your purpose,” Jeritza says, “is to finish the battle. No more, and no less.”

He turns his pale gaze towards her, and something flickers in his eyes.

“You,” he says. “You are the new professor.” His eyes narrow. “And the mercenary known as the Ashen Demon.”

It’s more of a statement than a question, but she nods all the same.

There’s a rush of murmurs through the crowd. Apparently her epithet is news to many.

Jeritza’s mouth twists into something that is almost a smile. “Good,” he says. “You will be my first demonstration.”

The wooden sword he tosses her way is thin and light, more delicate than her preferred blades. Closer to a rapier than a longsword. It’s not her first choice of a weapon, but she is… proficient.

Her feet instinctively slide into a ready stance, and Jeritza mirrors her.

“To the first blood,” he says flatly, and she nods.

It’s almost impossible to tell who moves first, the wooden swords flashing out like a pair of vipers. Their blades clash, and she flicks her wrist to disengage, circling to his right.

He pivots, his eyes cool and calculating as he tracks her path. He strikes, once, twice, and she deftly deflects both, twisting his sword off-course then stepping in with a thrust.

The blow slides off the flat of his blade, and Jeritza retaliates with a broad sweep, and—

The scythe cuts the air between them and she throws herself back, hitting the dirt as she ducks beneath a second swing and rolls into a crouch.

The Death Knight cocks his head, leveling the curved blade at her, as if contemplating how to best separate her head from her shoulders.

Her eyes narrow and she lunges, twisting around another slash, the scythe close enough that she feels the breeze from the blow stir her hair, and she sweeps his legs out from under him. He falls with a grunt and a heavy thud, and she holds her sword not even an inch from his throat, straddling the expanse of his cuirass.

Her teeth are bared and her eyes are cold and she snarls, “_Yield_.”

She can feel the low rumble of his laughter reverberating through his chest. “Good,” he murmurs. “You will be my final challenge.”

And she readies her blade to plunge it into his neck—

Jeritza is pinned underneath her, pale eyes wide behind his mask. The students are deathly silent.

“...I yield,” he forces out.

There is a full beat of stunned silence before she stumbles off of him, nearly ending back on the ground in her haste, and the sword falls from her numb hands.

He winces as pushes himself up, hair in disarray, but his eyes never leave her. His gaze is searching.

She can’t meet the stare he levels at her, her eyes boring blankly into the ground as she forces a stiff bow, and turns to flee. She only barely manages not to run.

* * *

She’s halfway across the monastery before her mind catches up to her legs. She’s… in front of the dorms, breath leaving her in shaky puffs as she stares blankly towards the pond. The water mirrors the sky, still bright and blue in the early evening.

Sothis is still silent, dozing in the peripherals of her consciousness, and, even asleep, the girl’s presence is enough to soothe her, if only a little.

She stares across the pond for a few moments longer before ducking into the greenhouse for some semblance of privacy. Something inside of her relaxes as she steps past the threshold, the air sweet and warm around her. She breathes deeply, lets the distant murmur of water and the faint rustle of leaves ease the tension in her chest.

The greenhouse is filled with herbs and flowers, the fragrances mingling into something so cloyingly rich it’s almost dizzying. She recognizes a few kinds—the roses are obvious, as are the clusters of carnations. There are a few stalks of sunflowers that tower over the rest of the plants, comically tall.

She catches a whorl of lavender between her fingers, the colors soft and muted in comparison to the other flowers, and she plucks a sprig before she thinks about it, tucking it into the sleeve of her coat.

With the flower pocketed, she turns to head to the dining hall. It’s a bit early for supper, but the alternative is returning to her room. Jeritza’s seminar isn’t over yet, so she can likely avoid the entirety of the Blue Lions if she plans carefully enough.

There’s a few students already eating, and she’s about to take the first tray she can find when a call of, “Professor!” draws her attention.

Dorothea is waving her over, seated next to a dark-haired, rather gloomy looking boy.

He arches a thin brow as she grabs a tray and sits across from them. She recognizes him vaguely from the whirlwind of introductions—Hubert, her mind supplies.

“So,” he says, “this is the famed professor? Dorothea spoke highly of your lecture—I would have attended, had I not my own duties to attend to.” His voice is soothing—faintly raspy, but deliberate and level.

“Stop teasing, Hubie,” Dorothea scolds. “Don’t mind him, Professor. I wanted to apologize for behavior today.”

Byleth blinks. “Apologize?”

“I was rather rude, wasn’t I?” Dorothea frowns, a dainty thing so composed it's like she’s trading one mask for another. “I simply loathe the idea of wars and battles. Ironic for someone attending the Officer’s Academy, no?”

Byleth takes a bite of her food to burn some time. Right. Her seminar. It already seems like years since then.

“There’s nothing to apologize for,” she replies, looking down to study her plate. “You’re still young. It’s natural to want to avoid conflict.”

“You can’t be much older than us,” Hubert observes, like he’s evaluating her.

“I don’t doubt our upbringings were different,” she replies, but when she meets his eyes she hesitates. “I also don’t doubt that your values are different than hers.”

He looks amused. “Perhaps,” he allows.

Dorothea glances between the two of them, expression thoughtful. “Anyway,” she says, “how have you been holding up, Professor? Your first day and all that.” She leans forward, cheek in hand as she smiles. “I know I’m just a student, but I’m happy to help out if you need it.”

Byleth pauses, wondering if she should speak. She bites the inside of her cheek before opening her mouth. “Could you tell me about Jeritza?”

Dorothea blinks. “Jeritza von Hrym?” she says. “He’s the Blue Lions’ professor, isn’t he?”

Hubert hums thoughtfully. “House Hrym is an Imperial line,” he says. “Quite honestly, I am surprised that he was not assigned the Black Eagles, considering his lineage. I believe he is the current Viscount despite his age.”

Dorothea scoffs lightly, leaning towards Byleth. “Whenever Hubie says he ‘believes’ something, it’s probably backed up by the information of a dozen spies,” she says, sounding like she’s only half-joking.

Hubert huffs through his nose, narrowing his eyes, but doesn’t disagree.

“As far as I’m aware,” he continues, ignoring his classmate’s responding snicker, “he is incredibly proficient at swordplay. Although…” He pauses contemplatively, studying her with cat-like focus. “...it seems you are superior to him.”

Byleth freezes, her fork halfway to her mouth. “I did beat him in a spar earlier,” she offers.

“I’ve heard,” he comments, offhanded and agreeable. His lips are curled at the corners, almost unbearably smug, and she wants to ask how, considering the event had happened barely minutes ago.

“Oh, but this is the first I’ve heard of this,” Dorothea says. “Do tell, Professor!”

Byleth ducks her head. “I… attended Jeritza’s seminar,” she says slowly, “and he asked me to spar as a demonstration. And I beat him,” she adds, almost as an afterthought.

Dorothea smiles and tosses her hair over her shoulder. “Ah, I do love this song,” she says. “A stuffy aristocrat beat by a mercenary without a drop of noble blood.”

“Easily amused, are you?” Hubert says dryly, and she huffs, rich green eyes narrowed.

“_Hubie_,” she croons, so saccharine and sweet that he winces, “tell me, what _duties_ kept you from attending the seminar, hm?”

He sends her a telling look, sipping from a plain cup. “Quite frankly, none of your business.”

She pouts, batting her long lashes at him, and sighs when the only reaction it provokes is a twitch of his brow.

If she concentrated, Byleth thinks, she would be able to pick apart Dorothea’s mask—which of her emotions are genuine and which and performed. The teasing tone in her voice when talking to Hubert—most of that was real, she thinks. The apology was perhaps half-genuine—the intent was real, but the execution entirely constructed.

Two-faced is too cruel a descriptor to define her, but it’s close.

The bell tolls for the new hour and Byleth winces. “Apologies,” she murmurs as she stands. “I have… matters to attend to.”

Dorothea tilts her head curiously, and Hubert arches a knowing brow.

“Until next time, Professor,” he says mildly, and his classmate offers a flutter of her fingers as a wave goodbye.

If she’s quick, she can avoid the incoming flood of Blue Lions.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the jeritza scene is probably my favorite bit that i've written so far. i'm also really glad that people seemed to like the last chapter bc i was worried that byleth's lecture was like,, uncomfortably clunky, but it looks like i managed to find an appropriate middle ground haha  
also, i really like hubert's voice and dorothea's everything so they get some spotlight this chapter
> 
> (if u wanna see some decent hand-crafted fe3h memes or notes on my future projects, u can follow my twitter! https://twitter.com/jael_dub)


	7. in which she has tea

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -lies on the ground and stares at the ceiling- t,,,, ten thousand hits,,,,,,,, thamk you so much,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,,

Up until this exact moment, Byleth has had no strong feelings about the location of her room. She didn’t care that she was on the ground floor rather than the second, and had no qualms being the furthest from the dining hall.

But now, when every step takes her closer to the training grounds and the students that are pouring through the gates, she feels like having a dorm at the bottom of the pond would be a more pleasant alternative.

She weaves behind the columns, avoiding their line of sight whenever possible. She recognizes Dedue’s massive frame and Sylvain’s vibrant shock of hair instantly, and winces when she catches a glimpse of the white porcelain of Jeritza’s mask.

She’s only scant feet from her door, and she quickens her pace, the safety of solitude nearly in reach.

She has the doorknob in her hand when a soft call of, “Professor?” stops her in her tracks.

She exhales a long, deliberate breath through her nose and turns.

Mercedes tilts her head, a few wayward strands of hair falling over her face. “I was hoping to catch you,” she says. Her smile is softer than the petals of lavender tucked in her coat and a dozen times as sweet, and Byleth finds herself relaxing minutely.

“...Mercedes,” she greets. “May I help you?”

“Ah, I was actually hoping that I could help you?” Mercedes smooths out the front of her skirt before meeting her eyes, almost bashful. “You seemed like… you were having a hard time earlier. I have some tea that helps with nerves, if you’d like?”

Byleth considers politely declining, cool and short, and then retreating to the privacy of her room. What leaves her mouth is, “I wouldn’t want to impose.”

Mercedes‘ expression softens. “It would be no trouble at all,” she says reassuringly. “I would love to have you.”

Byleth nods, short and hesitant, and the smile that she’s graced with in return is so lovely that she has to stop and blink.

Mercedes leads her to a room just a few doors down, draped in blue. It’s cozy, already decorated in ways that Byleth’s own room is not—a small painting, stacks of books for leisure reading, a spool of yarn.

She reaches into a drawer for a satchel of tea and a set of cups, then moves to the desk for the pot and pitcher of water. She holds the teapot in one hand and brings the other to its base, and a small flame lights up her palm, flickering against the bottom of the pot.

“Perhaps it’s a bit childish, using a gift like magic to do something as mundane as this,” she says, catching Byleth’s curious gaze for a just a moment before turning her attention back to the tea.

Byleth cocks her head. “You have excellent control,” she observes. “It’s very difficult to maintain a small stream of magic. You must be very skilled.”

Mercedes blushes very faintly at the praise and smiles. “Thank you. I studied at the Royal School of Sorcery for a time before transferring here. I would hope my skills would have refined somewhat.” She laughs a little. “I’m actually a bit older than most of the students here, so having a professor my age is a little odd. I do hope we’ll get along well.”

Byleth inclines her head, watching as Mercedes extinguishes the flame and checks the pot, then sprinkles the tea leaves in. The steam turns sweet and fragrant, wafting through the room as she sets the pot on her desk to brew and meanders to another drawer, retrieving a small jar. She glances at Byleth, a small, surprised, ‘oh,’ leaving her lips.

“Ah, we… aren’t supposed to keep food in our rooms,” she says, looking chastened, even though Byleth hasn’t shown any indication of judgement.

Byleth shrugs. “I won’t tell,” she says simply.

Mercedes hides a giggle behind her hand and opens the jar. The contents are golden and syrupy—honey, Byleth recognizes as the student adds several spoonfuls to the pot, spoon clinking pleasantly against the side as she stirs.

“There we go—all done,” Mercedes chirps, pouring the tea into a delicate porcelain cup.

Byleth murmurs a thank you, accepting the cup and taking a tentative sip. It’s sweet—much sweeter than what she’s used to, but it’s not bad.

“If we had some lavender it would be perfect,” Mercedes sighs wistfully, seating herself on the edge of her bed. Byleth follows suit, pulling out the chair at the desk to sit.

Then she blinks. “Lavender,” she echoes, and pulls the flower from her sleeve. “Like this?”

Mercedes’ eyes widen a little. “Why, yes.”

Byleth wordlessly passes the stalk to her, and the student accepts it with gentle hands, plucking some of the buds to add to their cups.

When she takes enough sip, there’s a fresh, floral tinge, and across from her, Mercedes hums happily. “Now, if only we had some cookies,” she says, sending a glance at Byleth like she might produce some pastries from the depths of her coat as well.

“Maybe next time,” Byleth offers instead.

Mercedes wilts and somehow it’s the most distressing thing she’s ever seen. Luckily, the student brightens before anything drastic happens to her heart.

“So there will be a next time?” Mercedes says, smiling up at her.

Byleth ducks her head. “If you’d like,” she answers, and takes another draft of her tea to avoid eye contact.

Mercedes laughs softly. “I would like that very much.”

Byleth quietly nurses her cup, breathing in the fragrant steam between sips.

Mercedes seems to be… doting on her, almost, refilling her cup and smiling with a tenderness that’s almost unbearable. The quiet is warm and comfortable, filled with the scent of lavender and honey.

The tea in the pot rapidly dwindles, shared between the two of them. The tension in muscles starts to ease, although she has a hard time telling if it’s from the tea or the company.

“Mercie!” a familiar voice chirps. “Are you coming for dinner?”

Annette peeks into the room, blue eyes wide, Ashe peering over her head just behind her.

“Oh! Sorry, sorry, didn’t mean to interrupt!” she squeaks.

“It’s okay, Annie,” Mercedes soothes. “We were just about done.”

Byleth sends a mournful glance to the last sip of tea in her cup before downing it.

“Thank you, Mercedes,” she says, setting the cup aside and standing. “I… hope you will have me again.”

Mercedes beams. “Of course, Professor,” she replies. “Have a wonderful evening.”

She nods as she passes Annette and Ashe, both of them staring back at her owlishly, and beelines back to her room. Closing the door behind releases a flood of instant relief, and she sinks into her bed without a second thought, coat carelessly rumpled beneath her.

Admittedly, while she's much more relaxed than she had been before seeing Mercedes, she's still exhausted. She considers simply falling asleep then and there, idly teasing out a knot in her hair with her fingers. It’s a bit early—the sun is barely below the horizon—but she’s tired enough to warrant an early retirement.

Of course, that is the moment when a sharp knock rings through her room.

She blinks. It’s not her father—Jeralt isn’t due to return until the end of the week. Other than him, she can’t think of anyone who would want to see her at this hour.

She rises to answer the door, cracking it open just enough to peer though before swinging it wide when she recognizes the tousled green hair.

“Seteth,” she greets cautiously.

“Good evening, Professor,” he says, posture as impeccable as ever. “I trust you are settling in well.”

“I am,” she replies. She’s also wishing that she could be settling in her bed right now.

“You should familiarize yourself with your fellow professors and faculty,” he says, shepherding her out like she’s an unruly puppy. “There is a faculty meeting soon. I will escort you there.”

She mutely allows herself to be marshalled in the general direction of the audience chambers until Seteth seems to realize he’s barely shy of manhandling her, cheeks reddening and taking a full step back from her.

“Apologies,” he mumbles, then clears his throat, back straightening. “Your seminar today was… enlightening, albeit unexpected.”

She pauses. Right. Seteth had been there, silent and judgemental through the whole hour.

“Thank you,” she offers, for lack of a better response.

He nods shortly and continues to lead the way to the offices, as she has to half-jog to keep up with his much longer stride.

She can hear the bustle of voices long before they reach the offices—so can Seteth, if his wince is anything to go by. She barely catches his mutter of, “Not again.”

He takes the stairs two at a time, quickening his pace, and Byleth scrambles to keep up. The voices are much clearer now, clearly engaged in an argument, and she catches a distinct cry of, “You horrid, shriveled, old man!” immediately followed by a scandalized shout of, “Old?!” Then, “_Shriveled_?!”

“Manuela! Hanneman!” Seteth barks, storming into the room, and Byleth marvels for a moment that, despite knowing the man for a scant handful of days, how it’s already so refreshing to see his ire directed at somebody else.

The two in question freeze immediately. The woman—presumably Manuela— clears her throat. “Seteth! I did not think you would be so… early.”

“I am on time,” Seteth corrects, voice clipped.

Byleth glances around and catches sight of Jeritza, seated in an armchair in front of the hearth and steadfastly ignoring the ruckus around him, and she immediately averts her gaze.

Another man sits across from him, equally quiet, his auburn hair pulled back in a long plait. There’s also Alois, who seems to have been attempting to placate the two of them before Seteth’s arrival, as well as two other women conversing by themselves in the corner.

“Please,” Seteth says, pinching the bridge of his nose, “you two _must_ learn to get along. Consider the example you’re setting for the students.”

“Leave it, Seteth,” one of the women calls, looking amused. Her eyes are a sharp, electric blue, her fair hair stark against her tanned skin. “They’ll never change and you know it. Like an old married couple, those two.” She laughs at her own joke, and her companion heaves a long-suffering sigh.

“I expect you to setting an example as well, Catherine,” Seteth retorts, brow furrowed. “It is important to leave a good impression on both the students and your fellow knights—”

Catherine laughs again, shifting her weight to one leg and resting a hand on her hip. “The only person I’m interested in impressing is Lady Rhea.”

Her companion, pale and clad in dark leathers where Catherine is in bright armor, snorts. “Only Seteth could turn a welcoming meeting into a lecture,” she says dryly.

Byleth cocks her head, then glances up at him. “Welcoming meeting?”

The man flushes very faintly and coughs into his hand. “Shamir,” he says like a warning, but the woman merely shrugs. “An… _introductory_ meeting would be more accurate,” he continues, apparently attempting to salvage the situation. “I thought it appropriate, as your circumstances are rather unique, and you wouldn’t have the familiarity we do.”

“So considerate, our Seteth!” Alois boasts, clapping the other man on the back, and Seteth physically reels from the force.

“Thank you, Alois,” he manages, looking rather like he is on the verge of losing his composure.

Jeritza scoffs, barely audible, and it takes a formidable effort for Byleth not to look his way.

“As I was saying,” Seteth says, his brow twitching as Catherine sighs, “this is an introductory meeting. I have little doubt that most of you are aware that the archbishop has appointed Byleth as an instructor. I trust you will treat her with grace and respect.”

“Of course, of course!” Manuela says. “As if anything but kindness would be fit for a newcomer as lovely as her!” She sends a wink Byleth’s way.

At a loss, Byleth manages a slight nod, and—

She remembers, very distinctly, this woman lying on the ground, blood pooling around her, Jeritza’s mask clutched in a crimson hand.

Manuela frowns. “Are you quite alright, dear? You’ve grown awfully pale.”

“...Ah,” Byleth says. “...Apologies. The stress of the day seems to be catching up to me.”

She can feel Jeritza’s gaze boring into her, cool and steady, and she restrains a flinch.

“A crest!” Hanneman exclaims suddenly, and she does flinch at that. “It appears you have one, Profoessor. Fascinating indeed!”

“Hanneman,” Seteth warns. “Not now, please.”

“Nonsense, Seteth,” Hanneman says blithely. “It would only take a moment—”

“Hanneman,” the auburn-haired man interrupts. “Perhaps it would be wise to wait for a better opportunity.”

The professor flounders for a moment, accosted on all sides, before heaving a miserable sigh. “If you insist, Sir Gilbert,” he concedes, before turning back to her. “I would greatly appreciate it if you would stop by my office in the near future—I believe we would have much to discuss, both as a co-worker and a researcher."

She hesitates before she nods, much to Manuela’s apparent amusement.

“Professor Byleth, this is Hanneman,” Seteth says, sounding equal parts exhausted and exasperated, “head of the Golden Deer. Manuela is our resident physician and head of the Black Eagles, and there is Jeritza, head of the Blue Lions.”

‘I’m well aware,’ is on the tip of her tongue, but she bites it instead, bowing politely.

“You’re familiar with Alois, of course," he continues, "and Catherine, Shamir, and Gilbert are all part of the Knights of Seiros as well—you may expect to see them around the monastery quite frequently.”

“I hope to work with you soon!” Alois exclaims, grinning widely. “To think Jeralt’s own child would work side-by-side with me—it is like reuniting with a long-lost sibling!”

“Is it?” Catherine asks.

He puffs out his chest. “Of course! I was Jeralt’s own squire, back in the day—”

“We know,” Shamir says dryly. “You’ve told us. At length.”

Gilbert settles more comfortably into his chair, seemingly resigning himself to a fresh wave of bickering. Jeritza does the opposite and stands, halfway out the door before Seteth can call him back.

“I’m leaving,” he says shortly. “My time is better spent training.” And then he’s gone.

Seteth releases a long breath, and Byleth tries not to do the same, albeit from relief rather than irritation.

“I suppose,” he says, “as introductions have been made, you are… free to leave, if you wish.”

“Hah? You called us all here for just this much?” Catherine says, grimacing. “I’m leaving, too, then. Nice to meet you, Professor.”

Shamir follows the knight out, offering Byleth a short nod of acknowledgement, and Manuela twitters. “I suppose I’ll take my leave as well—”

“A moment of your time, if you would,” Seteth says, eyes narrowing. “I would like to discuss something with you.”

The physician sighs, following him to the other corner of the room as Seteth wears a stern expression that Byleth is rapidly becoming familiar with.

She takes a step back, attempting to plan her retreat before Alois considers regaling her with a tale or a dozen of Jeralt’s exploits.

“Oh, Professor Byleth, just a moment?”

She freezes in her tracks like a guilty child. “Professor Hanneman.”

The older man smiles, smoothing the collar of his coat. “Do you happen to be free tomorrow afternoon?”

“...I am,” she replies cautiously. True, mostly. The only things she’s planning are sleeping in and drafting out her next seminar.

His eyes crinkle behind his monocle. “Wonderful! Then would you be able to assist me in my upcoming lecture, perhaps?” He pauses, stroking his mustache with gloved fingers. “Well, more of a training practice than anything.”

“Assist?” she echoes.

Hanneman nods. “We have quite the crop of potential archers in this class. However, this year’s students are proving to be—” he pauses delicately— “rather eccentric. Some assistance, at least for this first practical, would be much appreciated.”

She blinks. “I… could.”

Hanneman beams. “Wonderful! Then I’ll see you at the practice grounds at the third bell tomorrow, yes?”

She nods, and Hanneman thanks her profusely, looking rather satisfied with himself.

“Already hoarding our professor for yourself, Hanneman?” Manuela calls, peering around Seteth’s broad frame. “Do save some of her for the rest of us, won’t you? Or at least don’t scare her off.”

Hanneman huffs but doesn’t dignify her with a response, instead offering a brief good night before he retires, and Byleth sends a final glance back into the room, offering a nod to Gilbert when he catches her eye, and leaves as quietly as she can manage.

She feels Sothis rouse, humming sleepily.

‘_An odd bunch_,’ she murmurs contemplatively. ‘_Just as odd as the students_.’

Byleth allows herself a faint smile. “They seem like good people,” she offers.

‘_To say nothing of their eccentricities_,’ Sothis sniffs. The girl’s presence curls around her mind like cat draping itself across her shoulders, comforting and warm. ‘_Now hurry and return to your quarters. I wish to rest_.’

A tiny puff of laughter escapes her. “Of course.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> seteth, probably: i have to do everything in the fucking house  
things i like: mercedes, the way manuela blatantly flirts with Byleth when Jeralt is literally right there, the faculty playing hot potato with a singular brain cell  
anyway, golden deer time next chapter! hopefully some more edelgard too


	8. in which she assists

“How are you doing?” she asks.

Dimitri’s face is gaunt, lone eye bruised and shadowed. “Leave.”

“I brought food,” she continues, setting the plate on the pew. “You need to eat.”

He slams the butt of his spear into the nearest bench. The aged wood cracks down the middle, splintering like ply.

“_Leave_,” he spits again, rounding on her. He looms over her, even hunched as he is. She is fully cast in his shadow.

“I am not afraid of you,” she tells him, meeting his gaze, unwavering. “I never have been.”

For a moment, he falters, stooping so low that his breath fans over her face, and then he tenses, teeth baring in a sneer.

“Leave,” he snarls, “before I show you exactly what kind of monster I’ve become—”

She awakes with an arm outstretched, reaching to cup a face that isn’t there.

The breath in her lungs escapes in a rush, and her hand falls limply onto the mattress beside her.

‘..._Apologies_,’ Sothis murmurs. ‘_I couldn’t them all at bay. I hope you are not too distressed_.’

“‘M fine,” Byleth mumbles back, voice thick with sleep.

She yawns, paws her bangs away from her eyes with a slow hand. Judging by the light streaming in from the bottom of her door, she’s up far later than usual. Dressing quickly, she leaves her room just as the bells begin to ring—with a wince, she realizes it’s only an hour until noon.

‘_Lazy_,’ Sothis teases, and promptly drifts off.

Byleth runs a hand through her hair with a sigh. There’s a dull ache in her stomach—a reminder that she apparently slept through breakfast, and she makes her way to the dining hall.

A good chunk of the Blue Lions have congregated at one table, cheerfully conversing as they eat—Dimitri’s plate is, somehow concerningly, extremely yellow.

The prince raises his head, catching her and smiling. “Good day, Professor,” Dimitri says, pleasant and polite. “I hope you’re feeling well.” Beside him, Dedue grants her a nod of acknowledgement.

Sylvain smiles up at her, winking cheekily, and promptly winces as Ingrid elbows him in the ribs. Felix glances up, eyes narrowing, then turns back to his food.

“...Good day,” she says. She risks a second glance at Dimitri’s plate. It seems to be… piled with exclusively cheese. “I am well, thank you.”

“Why not have lunch with us, Professor?” Sylvain wheedles, grinning with boyish charm. “It might be a bit cramped, but you can always sit in my lap if there’s not enough space—” He cuts off with a yelp and cradles his stomach. Ingrid calmly withdraws her fist.

“We understand if you’re busy,” Ingrid says with a placid smile, ignoring Sylvain’s rattling wheeze and Felix’s derisive snort.

“Thank you for the offer,” Byleth says slowly, “but I don’t plan on staying long.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says. “I wouldn’t want to keep you from your duties.” His eyes are blue and bright and earnest, but for a moment the image of him, shadowed and cold, resurfaces sharp enough that it almost makes her flinch.

She bows shallowly as she leaves, grabbing a tray—a simple meat and vegetable mix, unlike Dimitri’s cheesy mass—and finds a quiet corner to scarf down her food, eating as quickly as socially acceptable, in the hopes of retreating before anyone else notices her.

Distantly, she hears Ingrid say, “Oh, Felix, are you done already?” and it’s the only warning she gets before she is immediately accosted by the boy.

Felix approaches her, stony and narrow-eyed. “Spar with me,” he demands. He’s practically cornering her, blocking her path to door and keeping her back to the wall.

She cocks her head. “Now?”

“Of course,” he says, barely not sneering. “When else?”

She considers rejecting the request, but then considers the surliness that will undoubtedly occur as a consequence.

“...Alright,” she concedes. “Training grounds, then.”

He nods shortly, apparently satisfied, before stalking out of the dining hall. She follows close behind.

He shoulders his way past the gates, not bothering to so much as glance behind him, and beelines for the weapons rack.

He tosses a sword her way and grabs one for himself, feet sliding into a ready stance. She glances at the sword, then him.

“Why not ask Jeritza?” she asks, and then Felix is rushing her.

Despite what she assumes is an attempt at a surprise attack—or a testament to his impatience—she sidesteps his first thrust neatly, then trips him with a foot as he hurtles past her. He hits the dirt, face-first and hard.

She hums. “Sloppy,” she informs him.

He scowls, scrambling to his feet. “Again.”

She wordlessly acquiesces, pivoting as Felix begins to circle her.

She strikes first this time, simple and easily parried, but fast enough that he doesn’t have time to retaliate, and falls into a familiar rhythm.

He grits his teeth and blocks every blow, but it’s taking most of his concentration—she can tell that he’s quickly becoming frustrated.

Patience, she remembers, has never been his strong suit.

He waits for exactly three more swings before he darts in, heedless of the blunted sword pointed at his chest.

Unwilling to skewer him on his own momentum, she drops her sword, twisting the side and catching his own swordhand at the wrist. He yelps, startled, and she twists his arm and spins him around, pinning his wrist behind his back, and his weapon clatters harmlessly to the ground.

Point sufficiently made, she releases her hold and steps back, and blinks in surprise when Felix wheels around, fist driving towards her face.

She ducks under the blow, blocks the second punch with an open palm. Felix wrenches back his hand before he lashes his leg out in a low sweep, and she braces. The kicks lands and she grimaces, but it doesn’t knock her off her feet, and she counters with a sweep of her own. Unbalanced from his own attack, he stumbles with a curse, and from there it is a simple matter to knock him to the ground with a simple kick to his knees.

“Better,” she grants him. “Still too aggressive.”

He scowls and sits upright, drawing up a knee to rest his arm on. “You fight differently from every other opponent I’ve faced,” he says. Then, gruffly, “You’re better.”

She tilts her head, waiting for him to elaborate.

Felix stews in silence for a moment before looking away. “I’ve only ever trained with knights,” he says. “That’s why I wanted to spar with you, not Professor Jeritza. Even though he’s a professor, he’s still a knight” Then, mumbled, “They don’t fight… dirty.”

“You certainly do,” she replies, a hint of dryness entering her tone.

“I’m not a knight,” he bites back. “And I don’t intend to become one.”

She hums contemplatively.

‘_What he is_,’ Sothis complains crossly, ‘i_s a_ brat.’

The comment is so unexpected that Byleth has to bite her tongue to restrain the snort of laughter that threatens to bubble up in her chest. Sothis preens at her joke.

“What do you want, then?” Byleth continues. “Why come to the academy?”

He answers immediately. “I want to grow stronger,” he says. “I want to face worthy opponents.”

Stronger. That’s a familiar word. A sad one, somehow.

“There’s more to life than war,” she says.

Felix’s mouth twists into a grimace. “Odd sentiment from a mercenary.”

She shrugs. “Even mercenaries need rest.”

He opens his mouth, undoubtedly for another cutting comment, but the bells begin to toll.

“You have classes to attend,” she says, picking up the swords to return them to the weapons rack. “Run along now.”

He scowls, easing back onto his feet with a wince, and makes his way out.

“Felix,” she calls, and he pauses, glancing back. “I expect to see improvement by the time we next spar.”

There’s a glint in his eyes. “Of course,” he says. “How else will I beat you?”

The faint smile that quirks her mouth as he leaves might be fond, but it fades too quickly to tell.

* * *

With only so much time to kill before the Golden Deer’s practicals, she stays at the training grounds, running through her forms with practiced ease. Swords first—her first choice, as always—then axes, which are much more cumbersome but useful in their force. The hours fly by,and she’s just just picked out a lance to continue when Hanneman bustles in, followed by a crowd of students—predictably led by Claude.

“Aha! Professor, glad to see you,” Hanneman says, already looking harried. He attempts to adjust his monocle, glancing behind him at the class. “If we could start right away, perhaps—the bows, if you please.”

She nods and obliges readily, collecting bows and bushels of arrows as the professor attempts to corral the students into something resembling a standard formation.

With the weapons distributed, she falls into step behind Hanneman as he rambles—his explanation of her role as assistant was over within the first fifteen seconds, and the rest has been something or another about crests—specifically, what hers might be.

She’s starting to devise an escape when they pass by Lysithea, and the man immediately diverts his attention, dismissing her politely, if not hastily.

Hanneman busies himself talking to Lysithea, who seems to be enduring the man’s questions with an air of long-suffering, and Byleth decides to move on, weaving between practicing students.

Claude draws her eye first, head cocked as he lowers his bow to study his target. The center is bristling with arrows. He looks rather proud of himself as he notches another, his posture loose.

“Elbow up,” she says, guiding up his arm with a finger. “Wrist straight. Your aim is good, but don’t forget your form.” She uses her foot to widen his stance, nudging his ankle.

He grins at her, looking like he might quip something at her, but she’s moving on to observe Ignatz’s technique before he gets the chance—she catches him pouting in the corner of her eye.

Ignatz, while nervous, has few errors to correct. She offers him some praise in hopes of raising his confidence and suggests increasing his draw strength before she heads towards Leonie.

The girl’s eyes are narrowed in concentration, and she looses an arrow. It lands in the center of the target, just shy of a bullseye, and she hums in satisfaction.

There’s something off about her stance, and it takes Byleth a moment to recognize it.

“Did Jeralt teach you?” she asks.

Leonie puffs out her chest. “He did,” she says. “Some of it, at least. The rest I learned from hunting.”

Byleth huffs. “He doesn’t know how to use a bow,” she says dryly. “Trust me.”

Leonie cocks her head. “And you do?” Her tone is more curious than accusatory—even if the latter is still obvious in her voice. She holds out the bow and quiver. “Show me.”

Byleth takes the bow wordlessly. They’ve attracted some attention—Claude and Ignatz have paused in their practice, and even Hanneman glances over.

She weighs the weapon in her hand and levels her eyes at the target. The bow had never been her first choice of a weapon, but she’s proficient enough to give a decent demonstration in form.

She inhales deeply, unthinkingly grabbing three arrows and notching the first, the other two loose in her drawing hand. Her muscles flex, and she sets her gaze on the bullseye—

“What, you’re asking me for advice?” Claude preens, slicking back his hair with a gloved hand.

“I would hope you would have improved in the five years I’ve been gone,” she replies dryly.

He laughs softly, stepping around her so he’s at her back. “Guess the student has become the teacher, hm?”

His arms are warm when they encircle her, guiding her hands. “The trick,” he says, voice murmured at her ear, “is to—”

“Professor?” Leonie says cautiously.

Byleth blinks. The bowstring is slack in her fingers. “...Ah.”

Another breath. She lifts the bow, draws, releases. The second arrow is notched before the first even hits the target, the third readied just behind it. Thunk. Thunk. Thunk.

The first arrow lands dead center, the second splits it down the middle—as does the third.

Claude whistles lowly.

Leonie’s brows rise, and she mutely accepts the bow back, apparently conceding the point.

It takes Byleth the rest of the lesson to shake off the phantom warmth that lingers around her shoulders.

* * *

The students file out of the training grounds as the bells toll, chattering all the while, but Claude glances back at her, waving off a conversation with a classmate to hang back.

"Hey Teach," he says. "Have time to talk?"  
  
She nods, albeit hesitantly.

“I couldn’t help but notice your form was rather… unique,” he says, easy and conversational. “Actually, I recognized it. That low draw and arrow-in-hand shooting is an Almyran technique, isn’t it?”

It’s more of a statement than a question, and his eyes are cool as he observes her from beneath his lashes.

“...Ah,” she says, which is neither a confirmation nor a denial.

He cocks his head, eyes narrowing with his smile. “I’m curious—where’d you learn something like that?”

Her mind stalls. From you, is the first thing that she thinks, but that can’t be right.

“...Picked it up from another mercenary,” she says instead, half a beat too late.

“Really? Must be quite the archer.” The static smile on his face says that he’s not convinced in the slightest.

She makes a noncommittal noise. “Did you need more assistance?” she asks, ham-fistedly changing the subject.

“You mean ‘private tutoring?’” he ripostes with a wink. “I wouldn’t be averse to that.”

She allows the minuscule arch of a brow.

Claude sighs as his attempt makes no traction, and tucks his hands behind his head.

“I dunno,” he says, gazing at the sky, “just wanted to say that if you’re trying to hide your secrets, you shouldn’t make yourself so interesting.”

“What makes you think I’m hiding something?” she asks before she can stop herself.

“Oh, this and that.” The corners of his mouth curl up. “You’re very mysterious—it’s quite intriguing.”

“I was a simple mercenary,” she replies, shifting her weight. “Nothing mysterious about it.”

He lets out a breath of laughter. “Perhaps,” he concedes. “Maybe I’m reading too much into things.”

“Perhaps,” she echoes.

A faint call of Claude’s name—Lysithea, she recognizes—makes him sigh. “Looks like we have to cut our conversation short, Teach,” he laments. “My classmates can’t be without me, it seems.”

She huffs as he flicks a two-fingered salute and scampers off, laughing off a scolding delivered by a prickly and thoroughly unamused Lysithea.

‘_You seem to attract an awful lot of brats_,’ Sothis observes.

“First eccentrics, now brats,” Byleth murmurs, amusement warm in her chest. “What next?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> things i like: sylvain jose “himbo rights” gautier, felix straight chugging Juice That Makes You Rude, the patient and most long-suffering lysithea  
wasnt expecting felix to suddenly be here but i thought about him being Rude and then he basically wrote himself. black eagles next chapter, i promise OTL  
(Fun fact—the low draw and arrow-in-hand is a real technique and it’s badass as hell. lars anderson has vids on it on yt)


	9. in which she assists (again)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, trying to construct a detailed timeline of fodlans history through the wikis and character dialogue: haha yeah i think i understand this  
me: -lies facedown on the floor-

What’s next, it seems, is work.

The next couple days flow rather smoothly, all things considered. She delivers another seminar, this one on battalion positioning and tactics (which Felix seems thoroughly disgusted by), and spends much of her free time scrawling new notes or practicing her swordwork (less disgusted).

Seteth approaches her as she’s returning from the training grounds on Thursday evening, walking with that purposeful stride she’s come to recognize as business.

“Professor,” he calls, short and formal as always. “A moment?”

“Of course,” she says, halting in her tracks.

He draws himself up, clearing his throat and setting his hands at the small of his back.

“As you may know,” Seteth says, “all three houses are participating in a mock battle at the end of the month in order to gauge their abilities.”

She most certainly did not know, but nods all the same.

“The archbishop has requested you join as an observer,” he continues. “I suggest you plan your schedule accordingly. I’ve made a time table to accommodate all your courses, and I recommend you take it into consideration.”

He hands her a slip of parchment covered in writing cramped enough that the ink bleeds together. If she squints she can make out the words, if only barely.

Sothis makes a disgusted noise. ‘_His handwriting is awful enough to rival yours_.’

Byleth coughs to cover the snort that escapes her mouth. “I will certainly take it into account,” she manages.

Seteth’s mouth takes a faintly displeased curve, but he nods. “Thank you for your cooperation,” he says. He bows, stiff and formal, and turns to leave.

Sothis is quiet for a moment, and Byleth cocks her head, half-expecting another quip. ‘_He’s… familiar, somehow_,’ the girl murmurs instead, distant and thoughtful. ‘_I knew him, I think_.’

“From my memories?” Byleth asks.

‘_No_,’ Sothis says. ‘_No. I knew him before you_.’

Her brow furrows. “Before?” she presses, but Sothis is silent. Not sleeping, but lost in thought.

Byleth sighs, watching the flutter of Seteth’s cape as he turns the corner and disappears.

She studies the parchment again and grimaces. She’ll have to adjust a few of her plans—and, more importantly, give up some of her free days—in order to accommodate everything Seteth has written for her.

She retreats back to the comfort of her room, flopping onto the bed as soon as the door shuts behind her.

She yawns, stretching out on the mattress. The repetitiveness of monastery life is starting to get to her. Even during the slowest months of mercenary work, they had been constantly on the road, travelling from village to village for jobs. Coming back to the same bed, day after day, is a new experience.

She rolls onto her stomach, staring at the stone walls. Even so, it’s not a terrible one. Familiar, somehow, and comforting, even if it seems a little dull.

She likes it here.

—

Friday brings a new set of trials.

Her father is set to return in the evening, and the prospect alone is enough to put a little energy into her steps as she makes her way down the corridor. Sothis dozes in the back of her mind, exhausted from keeping the dreams at bay.

Seteth, upon discovering her nonexistent knowledge of the Goddess, had less suggested and more required that she take the time to study the teachings of the Church of Seiros, so she makes her way to the library after breakfast, passing by the offices of the other professors. It’s early enough that there aren’t many people in yet—but, surprisingly, Manuela is there, humming as she takes inventory in the infirmary.

“Oh, Professor!” Manuela sing-songs as she catches her eye, setting down a roll of bandages.

Byleth inclines her head. “How may I help you, Professor Manuela?”

“So formal,” Manuela sighs, even as she smiles, almost indulgently. “Just Manuela is fine—I’m not your professor, after all.” Then, before Byleth can respond, “I’m hosting a swordsmanship seminar today and I was hoping you could join. Rather light, all things considered—I’d simply hate it if that boorish Hanneman monopolized your time.”

First Jeritza, then Hanneman, now Manuela. She’s beginning to feel rather like a rag doll being pulled in all directions, splitting at the seams. “Yes,” she says, despite her better judgement. At least she might be able to familiarize herself with the students more before the mock battle. “Of course. What time?”

The physician beams, and she can’t help but think that despite their bickering, Manuela and Hanneman are awfully similar.

“It's in the afternoon—most of our practicals are—just at the second bell. I’ll be waiting, Professor!” Manuela waves farewell with a flutter of her fingers, and Byleth nods, continuing to make her way to the library.

The library is… cozy, the candlelight low and warm, all dark wood and deep red fabrics. Books line the walls, high above her head.

She begins the tedious task of searching for the book that Seteth had recommended, squinting in the dimness. There’s a great deal of history and even more religious texts, beginning from the ages of the founder Seiros. Many of the tomes are old and weathered, and, she notes, there is a distinct lack of fiction.

Eventually she finds the book she’s looking for, a thick volume bound in cracked leather, and she pulls it from the bookshelf and settles at a table to read.

It’s a dry, humorless text, beginning with the tale of the King of Liberation and his descent into madness and corruption, then the first accounts of Seiros, forty-some years before the founding of the empire.

‘The Elites,’ she reads, ‘Blaiddyd, Riegan, Gloucester, Lamine…’

‘_Oh_,’ Sothis observes. ‘_They are the ancestors of your students_.’

“They aren’t ‘_my_’ anything,” Byleth mutters, earning a snicker, and skips ahead in the text.

“The Ten Elites stood by Seiros,” she murmurs, “and defeated the Fell King at the Tailtean Plains. Seiros honored them with noble titles for their faithfulness…” She trails off, brow furrowed.

Sothis shudders.

‘_Something is wrong_,’ the girl mumbles, her presence fluttering uneasily like a pacing wolf.

She stares at the words like they might rearrange themselves on the page.

_Wrong_, something whispers. _Wrong, wrong, wrong_.

“Ah, _The Extended History_ _of_ _Fódlan_,” someone says, faint and wispy. “Not the most riveting read, but it is the most-endorsed by the church.”

She jolts, looking up. The librarian smiles at her warmly. “I have my own preferences, of course,” he continues, “but if you are looking to research the church, it does the job well.”

Tomas, her mind supplies. He seems to be waiting for a response, staring at her expectantly.

“...I see,” she offers. “May I borrow this book?”

“Of course,” Tomas replies amicably, and the back of her neck prickles. “It’s always a pleasure to see people reading.”

She swallows thickly. “Thank you,” she manages, voice steady.

She closes the book and tucks it under her arm as she rises, bowing shallowly. The librarian smiles in return, and she ducks out the door, pulse thundering in her ears.

—

She’d spent more time in the library than she’d realized, and she drops off the book in her room before she makes her way to the training grounds.

The Black Eagles are settling in as she pushes through the gates, catching Manuela’s eye as she lingers at the back of the group.

The professor claps her hands together, and the students quiet.

“Welcome everyone!” Manuela begins, smiling. “I hope if you’re here, you know what you’re here for, so let’s get started, shall we?”

She dives into the lecture with that minimal preamble, walking through a specific style of swordplay that is apparently gaining popularity in the capital.

Even during the early spring, the sun shines harsh and bright down on the training grounds. It’s uncomfortably warm, so Byleth sheds her coat and drops it by a pillar just out of the dirt, leaving her in her shirt and gauntlets. She’s unexpectedly grateful for the cutout over her chest as she fans herself, a droplet of sweat dripping down her sternum.

Manuela pauses, brows raising slightly.

The abrupt silence draws the attention of the rest of the students, and some follow Manuela’s line of sight and land on Byleth.

Edelgard turns pink. Dorothea begins to look very interested.

Byleth blinks. “Is… something the matter?”

“Oh, nothing at all!” Manuela twitters. “Just a… brief distraction.”

Ferdinand makes a noise between a cough and a sputter.

Bemused, Byleth nods, waiting for the instruction to continue. Sothis snickers in the back of her mind.

There’s another beat of silence before Manuela starts her lecture up again, sword in hand as she demonstrates a twirl.

Manuela’s style of swordplay is, in a word, flamboyant. It has utility in its flowing strikes and misdirection, but it’s far different for the sharp, straightforward style of her father’s mercenaries.

She takes a few steps back, away from the students, and adjusts her grip on her practice sword. She makes a few experimental swings, light on her feet and posture loose, and mimics Manuela’s spin. It takes her a few tries before the twist of her wrist comes more naturally and she’s confident enough that she thinks she’ll be able to correct the students when it comes to it.

Edelgard glances back at her, attention seemingly caught by the flurry of movement. Her face is still a little flushed, but there’s something more discerning in her pale eyes.

She turns back to Manuela before Byleth can identify it, the students breaking off into pairs to practice on their own.

The groups, she thinks, are not particularly surprising. Edelgard practices under Hubert’s watchful eye, and Linhardt sighs as Caspar butchers the twirl and has to spit out a mouthful of dirt for his troubles. Ferdinand catches Petra’s attention, Dorothea fawning over Manuela as the professor hides a laugh behind her hand.

It takes her a moment to find Bernadetta—the girl is, rather unsuccessfully, hiding behind a pillar, and squeaks when Byleth makes eye contact.

She doesn’t run away when Byleth approaches, at least.

“Bernadetta,” she says, making an effort to soften her voice.

“Y-yes, Professor?” the student forces out, hunched over and holding her practice sword with a white-knuckled grip.

“Would you like to practice with your classmates?” she asks, quiet and mild.

Bernadetta lowers her gaze, scuffing her feet. “I’d… rather not,” she says. “I don’t really know them that well—not that I think that they’re bad people or anything, but they’re kind of scary and I don’t think I’d be very good at it anyway and I’d probably just mess up—!” She pauses to inhale deeply, blushing pink. “I mean. I don’t think I’d be of help.”

Byleth takes a moment to process her words. “Would you like to practice with me?” she tries. “We can stay back here, if you want.”

Bernadetta looks up at her with wide, gray eyes.

Byleth thinks that she might reject her for a moment, but blinks as the girl squeaks a quiet, “Okay.”

Bernadetta hefts up her sword, lips pursed and brow furrowed, and faces her. “L-like this, right?”

Byleth mirrors her, then shifts her stance. “Loosen your wrist a little,” she says. “Left hand lowered—this is supposed to leave a hand open for casting.”

The girl stares at the blade for a moment before she makes an attempt at adjustment.

“I think I prefer bows,” she says, apparently at a loss.

Byleth huffs, half a breath, half a laugh, and reaches to correct her posture. “These lessons aren't really meant for you to master the weapon,” she says, gently tilting the student’s sword up. “They’re so you can understand how your allies and your enemies fight.” She leads the simple twirl, slow and deliberate. “Different styles require different strategies to fight either with or against. What do you think the weaknesses of something like this is?”

Bernadetta hesitates, glancing between her sword and Byleth. “It… leaves you open?” she suggests, and receives an encouraging nod. “And it’s hard to use both at once, so it might slow you down.”

“Good,” Byleth praises. “Exactly.” She doesn’t quite manage a smile, but she thinks her expression must be approving enough, if the girl’s brightening countenance is anything to go by. “Then if your ally uses this style, what is your role as an archer?”

“Covering them,” Bernadetta says, marginally more confident. “Weakening the enemy so that they’re easy to finish off and don’t have a chance to retaliate.”

She raises a hand to ruffle the girl’s hair, like her father always had. Bernadetta blinks up at her as she pats her head gently, soft despite its unruly curls.

“Good job,” she says, a little awkward, but warm and genuine, and Bernadetta beams.

“Oh, Professor!” Dorothea calls. “Do you mind terribly if I steal Bernie away? I’d love to have her as my partner.”

Byleth looks back at Bernadetta. “Do you want to?” she asks simply.

The girl hesitates, stealing a glance at her classmate. “I could,” she says. “I-if she really wants to practice with me.”

“She does,” Byleth replies. “She asked first, after all.”

Bernadetta wiffles for a moment longer before she nods. “Okay,” she says, a little steadier. She picks her way to Dorothea, who smiles encouragingly.

The songstress strikes up an easy conversation, and Bernadetta nods along, cautiously at first, then more enthusiastically, and a warm wave of affection blooms in Byleth’s chest.

She watches them a moment longer as Dorothea twirls, light on her feet and sword flourishing, and Bernadetta mimics her.

Byleth circles around the training grounds, observing the other students. Caspar and Linhardt are being scolded by Manuela, so she skips over them, making her way towards Edelgard and Hubert.

“Professor,” Edelgard greets, adjusting her collar, and Hubert offers a slight incline of his head.

The girl’s eyes are keen and measuring, even as her gaze flickers down and she flushes pink.

“Ah—could you offer some critique?” she says, lifting her sword. “I seem to be struggling with the application.”

“Of course,” Byleth says.

Hubert arches a brow, but takes a step back to make way for her.

Edelgard faces her and levels the practice sword, and Byleth mirrors her.

“Ready?” she prompts, and the student nods.

Edelgard steps into the twirl, sword arcing wide, and Byleth deflects the blow neatly. The girl recovers quickly, pivoting into another swing, flowing from one strike to another.

Byleth falls into the familiar rhythm of parrying and dodging, letting the student practice each form. The blows are strong despite Edelgard’s small frame, pale eyes narrowed in concentration.

“Close,” Byleth says, sidestepping a vertical slice. “A little heavy. You’re used to axes, but this is a lighter style.”

Edelgard exhales, wiping a line of sweat from her brow. “I see,” she replies, catching her breath. “I’ve been meaning to practice my swordwork more. There’s a blade I’ve had my eye on for some time now.”

Byleth cocks her head. “What kind?” she asks, genuinely curious. “A rapier?” The slender swords are becoming more popular among the nobility, and she wonders if Edelgard is following the fashion.

There’s a beat. “No,” comes the reply, her mouth quirked in a faint smile. “A flamberge.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> IN THIS HOUSE WE LOVE AND PROTECT BERNADETTA
> 
> a flamberge is a wiggly sword. no, really


	10. in which she pays her respects

She’s tired and terribly sweaty by the time dinner rolls around, less from the strain and more from the heat. Even Caspar is run ragged, drooping enough to match Linhardt as the pair meander out of the training grounds. It’s only cooled down slightly, a breeze rolling in from the pond as the sun wanders westward.

She ambles into the dining hall with her coat bundled under her arm, intending on slumping into the first open seat she sees—

“What,” comes a voice, instantly recognizable, “not even going to greet your old man?”

She blinks. “Welcome back,” she says.

Jeralt huffs, mouth crooked in a fond smile.

“Come on,” he says. “I’m famished. Had to rush to make it back in time for dinner.”

She follows him to an empty table away from the bustle of students, tray in hand, and plops down across from him. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d been rushing, it seems—dust is caught in the fur trim of his tunic, his eyes tired and hair mussed.

She’s only taken a couple bites of her food before Jeralt withdraws the flask from its place at his belt, uncorking it and bringing it to his lips.

She arches a brow.

“Cut me some slack,” he grouses, even though she hasn’t said anything yet. “I spent a week trying to whip those fools into shape. I swear, you had more sense than them when you were a toddler.”

“At least Alois didn’t go with you,” she points out, and he grimaces, taking another long drought from his flask like the thought alone is enough to drive him to drink.

She picks at her food, glancing at her father between bites. He really does look tired, weary and sluggish in a way that he rarely is.

She can’t help but think that this place is bad for him.

He sighs, leaning against the table. “How’re you doing?” he asks, setting his canteen on the wood with a hollow clink. “Settling in? Those kids drive you to the ground yet?”

‘_Almost_,’ Sothis quips.

“I’m fine,” Byleth says instead. “I like them. They’re…” She pauses. “...Energetic.”

Jeralt snorts, staring at his half-empty plate and idly pushing around the remains of his food, despite his earlier claim of hunger.

He looks up. “Hey,” he says softly. “Why don’t we visit your mother?”

She looks at him. Really looks at him, meets his warm gaze and feels something in her chest ache. “...Okay.”

Jeralt pushes away from the table and she follows suit, trailing after him out the door like a child.

The heat isn’t as oppressing as earlier, dampened by the evening breeze. She follows him past the knight’s quarters, looping around to the terrace overlooking the cliffs. There’s a short set of steps that lead to a small, grassy cemetery. They’re alone, at this hour, the sun beginning to dip below the horizon, the sky painted crimson and gold.

“This place is reserved for nuns and the Knights of Seiros,” he tells her, picking his way down the stairs. “Your mother…” He pauses. “She was devout. Close to the archbishop.”

They stop by a grave, the name weathered away by time and the stone worn and smooth, and Jeralt looks at it like it had been erected yesterday, the grief fresh in his eyes.

“It’s been too long since I’ve visited,” he murmurs, half to himself. “I didn’t want to come back here. The monastery. But I never wanted to leave her like this.”

Byleth glances at him, but he’s not looking at her.

“You have your mother’s eyes,” he says quietly. “Her hair, too. Her everything, pretty much.” He huffs softly. “Didn’t get a lick of your old man’s looks, thank the Goddess.”

“You loved her,” she says.

Her father laughs. “Like she was the moon. Like she was the sun.” He’s silent for a moment, gaze distant. “I wish you had a chance to meet her.”

She leans against him, shoulder to shoulder, and he presses back, radiating warmth.

“I have you,” she says. “I’ve never…” She hesitates, eyes flickering up to his face. “I’ve never been lonely.”

He blinks, stunned, then exhales shakily, bringing a hand to his brow. “Knock it off, kid,” he says. “You’re going to bring your poor old man to tears.”

And she remembers crying, holding her father’s limp hand, cold rain falling on a cold body—

“I love you,” she says, voice wavering. “I love you, Father.”

The breath leaves her in a rush as he wraps his arms around her tightly. She buries her face in his tunic, head tucked under his chin. He smells like the road, like dust and sweat and metal. He smells like home.

“I love you, too,” he rasps. “And I won’t be leaving you anytime soon.”

She doesn’t cry, but it’s a near thing.

* * *

They don’t separate for a long while. If her father notices that her breath hitches when he pulls away, he doesn’t say anything.

He takes a long, shaky breath, running a hand through the mess of his hair.

“Sorry,” he says, voice rough. “I know you don’t really like this sort of stuff.”

She shakes her head. “It’s fine,” she says, and it's the first time she’s meant it.

He huffs a soft laugh, his hand dropping to his side. “You sure? I just about suffocated you.”

“I am,” she replies solemnly.

His eyes soften. “...Okay,” he says. “I believe you.”

Jeralt heaves a sigh, glancing back at her mother’s grave. “I’ve taken enough of your time,” he says. “I’m sure those kids are keeping you plenty busy. Seteth wanted a report by tonight, anyway.”

He takes a step back and she catches his hand in her own, and he pauses.

“I meant it,” she says. “I missed you. I’m glad you’re back.”

A smile tugs at his mouth, soft and affectionate. “I missed you, too.”

Slowly, she releases his hand, and he ruffles her hair, familiar and mundane and somehow terribly significant.

“I’ll let you get back to work,” he says. “Last thing we need is Seteth breathing down both our necks.”

She nods, frowning and Jeralt sighs, swatting her head gently. “Go on,” he says. “You’re the one who wanted the job.”

Her mouth twists into something that’s almost a pout, and he laughs, nudging her with his shoulder as he passes.

Her eyes linger on the grave for a moment longer before she follows him out.

* * *

She rubs her eyes with the heel of her palm, squinting at her papers in the dim light of her candle.

‘_Perhaps it is time to retire_,’ Sothis suggests. ‘_You have made little progress in the last hour._’

“...Perhaps,” Byleth grants, pushing her chair back from the desk. She leans back to stretch, rolling her shoulders, but pauses when the book on her nightstand catches her eye. _The Extended History of Fódlan_ stares back at her, the old leather of its binding glinting dully.

She reaches for it, flipping through the pages until she finds where she had left off at the library. Sothis prickles like a disturbed cat, sending fresh waves of unease down her spine.

She tamps down the welling anxiety, focusing on the text in front of her, where the newly-formed Imperial army clashes with the forces of the King of Liberation. Armed with the crests and relics granted by the Goddess herself, the former emerge victorious at the Tailtean Plains. The heroes then unite Fódlan under the banner of the Adrestian Empire, Seiros devoting her life to spread her teachings and eventually forming the church under her name.

Her fingers drum an uneven tattoo against her desk, teeth biting into the inside of her cheek. From there, it’s largely a history of the Empire—the eventual War of the Eagle and Lion and the Kingdom’s rise to independence through Loog, the annexation of Leicester territory by Faerghus and the subsequent war that leads to the founding of the Alliance—yet nothing gnaws at her like the beginning did.

She rereads the tale of Nemesis and Seiros, over and over, until the words blur on the pages and the ache thrumming in her head is too grating to ignore.

She shuts the book with a snap, massaging her temples. Her head drops, a groan escaping her chest.

“I dreamed of them,” she murmurs, “didn’t I? Nemesis and Seiros and—” Her hands ball into fists. “...Claude—?”

His arrow, brilliant red, arcing into the sky, golden cape caked in dirt, her sword cracking through the air like a whip, Nemesis, eyes blackened, snarling—

‘_Go to bed_,’ Sothis demands, uncharacteristically sharp. ‘_Before you pass out on the spot_.’

Byleth sighs, running a hand through her hair. “Fine,” she mumbles, too exhausted to argue.

She slumps bonelessly onto her bed, sprawling out on the sheets. Sleep claims her quickly, the clash of steel ringing in her ears.

* * *

She dreams of a canyon, painted red with the blood of her children. The _murderers monsters men_ defile the bodies, carving out their spines and ribs, dripping with their blood and baying like wolves in a drunken fervor.

She dreams of Nemesis, teeth bared in a feral smile, and in his hand—

Her bones, her heart, forged into a weapon of her family’s massacre.

She wakes up screaming.

No—not her.

Her pulse pounds like thunder in her head, her breath leaving her in ragged gasps, and Sothis is _wailing_.

“Sothis,” she chokes out, desperate and reeling. “_Sothis_—!”

_‘It’s too much_,’ the girl howls. ‘_I can’t—!_’

Byleth claws at the sheets, biting into her cheek until all she tastes is hot copper. It’s impossible to brace against the waves of grief and terror roll that roll through her, heavy and suffocating until she might break with it.

It feels like an eternity before Sothis’ screams wane into trembling whimpers. Byleth’s throat is rough and hoarse.

She stumbles out of bed, fumbling for the pitcher of water on her desk and nearly overturning it from the jolt of her arm. She pours it into her hand and brings it to her mouth, drinking greedily, her movements jerky and uncoordinated.

‘_I’m sorry_,’ Sothis gasps. ‘_I’m sorry, I’m sorry_—”

“It’s okay,” Byleth says, voice cracking behind her palm. “Sothis, calm down—”

There’s a knock at her door and she freezes.

“Professor?” someone calls, low and even. Dedue, she recognizes.

She stumbles to the door, trying to straighten herself out as best she can before she opens it.

The student’s large frame fills the doorway. Behind him, the sky is dark and spotted with stars, the halls cast in murky shadows.

“Apologies for my interruption,” Dedue says formally. “I heard a… commotion.”

Maybe it hadn’t just been Sothis. She must be a sight, breathing ragged, water dripping down her jaw. “I—yes, I’m fine. It was just a nightmare. Did I wake you?”

“You did not,” he replies. “I was already up.”

She looks up at him. There are shadows under his eyes, fatigue pulling his shoulders down. He certainly looks like he hasn’t been sleeping.

“I—” she rasps, and has to stop. Sothis’ sobs make her dizzy, and her grip on the doorframe tightens as her legs threaten to give out from beneath her. “I’m sorry for the disruption. Thank you for your concern.”

He looks over her, her ragged breathing and tense frame, and recognition flashes in his eyes. He nods shortly, starting to leave, but he hesitates after a step, lingering at her door.

“I have found,” he says slowly, “that the greenhouse is particularly calming. I have gone, myself, some nights.”

He meets her eyes, and she recognizes the exhaustion there, solemn and mourning.

“I see,” she manages.

He bows deeply and turns to leave.

“Dedue,” she calls, and he pauses, glancing back.

She swallows thickly. “Thank you.”

The line of his brow softens. “Of course,” he says.

He retires to his dorm, just a room down, and it’s not until she hears the click of his lock that she collects herself enough to stagger forward and shut the door.

She makes her way towards the pond, half-stumbling in the dark, and pushes her way past the entrance of the greenhouse. She slumps against the doors as soon as the close behind her, leaning against the wood.

A cracked, jagged sob tears its way past her throat and she grits her teeth. Her hands ball into fists, nails biting into her palms until blood drips from her fingers.

“Sothis,” she tries again.

There’s a beat of haunting silence, breath catching in her chest.

‘_I’m here_,’ comes the reply, weak and trembling.

“Sothis,” Byleth breathes. “Oh, Sothis. What _happened_ to you?”

‘_I don’t know_,’ the girl whispers. ‘_I don’t know.’_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -insert hand shaking meme but its dedue and sothis being traumatized by the genocide of their people-  
(WHY DIDNT FLAYN AND DEDUE TALK ABOUT IT IN THEIR SUPPORTS INTSYS PLEASE,,,,)
> 
> also not to be a cornball on main but forget the students, this fic was mostly written for my videogame dad


	11. in which she bathes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thanks for your patience, folks! here’s the next chapter  
if you follow me on Twitter (@jael_dub) you may have heard of the slew of shenanigans that life has beset on me, including, but not limited to, midterms, commissions, and our gas being shut off.  
thank you all so much for sticking with me and commenting! it really makes a difference ^_^

She’s not sure if she actually falls asleep, but when she next opens her eyes, the sky is beginning to lighten, the soft glow of the early morning streaming through the windows of the greenhouse.

She eases herself up, wincing as her legs protest against the movement, stiff from the lack of movement.

Sothis twitches fitfully, restless and overstrung. ‘_You look terrible_,’ she says.

Byleth releases a breath, running a rough hand through her hair and hissing through her teeth when her fingers catch a tangled knot. Her skin is clammy with sweat, cold even in the warmth of the greenhouse.

“...I’ll wash up,” she says.

Sothis makes a low noise, quieting as she pushes her way past the doors and makes her way towards the bathhouse.

Predictably, this early, no one is out and about. The halls are entirely deserted—something she’s grateful for, given her state. She slips into the washroom quietly, stripping quickly and shucking her clothes into a basket.

Without her clothes, she’s struck by how grimy she is, both from the exertion from the day before and the cold sweat from her nightmares. She grabs and bucket, filling it hot water from one of the faucets along the walls, pours the whole thing over her head.

It’s scaldingly hot, and it’s exactly what she needs.

She scrubs herself down with a washcloth until every inch of her is pink and clean, and dunks another bucket of water over her head for good measure. She feels lighter, now that she’s not cold and clammy, if only a little.

She wraps the towel around herself and pads into the next room, to the bathing pools. The steam obscures her vision, but she doesn’t miss the splashes that echo around the pool.

She freezes, wondering if she should back out, but a figure emerges from the haze.

“Wha—?!” comes the yelp. Dimitri jolts, wet hair falling over his eyes.“O-oh, Professor. You startled me—I’ll—ah—get out of your way—”

“You don’t have to trouble yourself,” she says. She might as well commit, now that she’s been caught, and eases herself into the water, hissing at the heat. “You’re here quite early.”

Dimitri is flushed red, steadfastly focusing his gaze at some point slightly above her. “Hot water is good for the muscles,” he says. “I woke early for training, and thought it might be nice to come here.”

She makes a low noise of acknowledgement, submerging herself to her chin.

“And you, Professor?” he asks. “I mean—well, you’re also here rather early.”

She pauses. “Couldn’t sleep.” It comes out more clipped than she means, and she bites her tongue. “I… thought that coming here would help me collect my thoughts.”

Dimitri’s expression is… odd. “I see,” he says.

She hums, pressing her fingers into the tense cord of her shoulders. She rolls her neck, sighing as the water soothes the stiffness deep in her muscles.

There’s an ache in her shoulder blade that throbs dully. The old arrow wound, she thinks, from protecting Dimitri. It had mostly healed over the course of several days, but the heat draws out its tenderness.

Barely more than a week had passed since she’d come here, she realizes suddenly. A week since something inside her had changed, irrevocably.

Dimitri lifts a hand, pushing his dripping bangs away from his face, and the motion catches her eye and—

Byleth stares.

She’s never seen his hands ungloved like this. Ragged, reddened burns mar his palms, striped with silvery webs of old scar tissue.

He follows her gaze and flinches, his hand dropping below the water. “Apologies,” he says. “It’s unsightly, I know.”

She reaches for him without thinking, drawing his arm back up. She holds his wrist in her hand and turns his palm up, gentle and careful.

“How did it happen?” she asks.

She can feel his eyes on her. “I… tried to pull aside flaming wreckage,” he says. “My friend was trapped beneath it.” His fingers twitch. “I didn’t make it in time.”

She’s quiet, mulling over his words. “The Tragedy of Duscur,” she murmurs.

“It wasn’t—” he starts, sharp, then stops himself. “I saw,” he says, less harshly. “It wasn’t them. The people of Duscur had nothing to do with it.” He releases a long, shuddering breath, his hand balling into a fist. “Nobody believed me. And I’m still too young to take the throne, so I can’t do anything about it—” He breaks off.

She doesn’t say anything—she can’t. The pain in his eyes is raw, a mirror of her dreams, and she remembers his creaking grip on a terrible lance, teeth bared and face gaunt, and she’s filled with a certainty that she never wants to let him fall that far.

“How long?” she asks, finally.

He pauses. “What?”

“Until you can do something about it,” she clarifies.

He blinks owlishly. “I—when I graduate from the Officer’s Academy,” he answers, half-stuttering.

“A year, then,” she says. “Make the most of it. Prepare yourself. Learn what you will be able to do.”

Dimitri’s mouth is slightly parted, jaw working like he means to say something.

She meets his eyes. “Well?”

“Of course,” he says. “Yes, of course I will.”

She exhales slowly. “Good.”

He looks back at their intertwined fingers, seemingly registering their environment all at once, and reddens from his ears to his chest. He hastily withdraws his hand. “I—” he squeaks more than says, then clears his throat. “I apologise. I didn’t mean to subject you to my responsibilities.”

“I am your professor,” she says simply. “You can always come to me with your concerns.”

Dimitri exhales, half a laugh. “That is quite a heavy burden to bear, to be sure. Even so…” He hesitates. “Even so, I am grateful. My responsibilities have been gnawing at me for some time. Speaking of them is relieving, if only a little.”

Red-faced, he ducks his head. “Apologies, Professor,” he says before she can reply. “The heat seems to be getting to me. I should take my leave.” He makes his way out of the water, a hand clutching the towel around his hips, but he hesitates at the door. He turns abruptly, bowing at the waist. “Thank you,” he says.

She inclines her head. “Of course.”

The haze of steam makes it difficult to tell, but she thinks something in Dimitri’s eyes might be a little softer than before.

—

She lingers in the pool a while longer, soaking in the warmth to ease the deep ache from sitting on the ground overnight, only forcing herself out when drowsiness threatens to overtake her.

The sky is bright by the time she leaves, stopping briefly by her room to change into fresh clothes. Sothis has long since dozed off, entirely worn down.

Byleth feels marginally better than she had been, and while the lack of sleep has its effect on her, she’s suffered through enough long nights to manage it, pressing the palms of her hands against her eyes.

She ducks into the dining hall and winces. The chatter is louder than usual, the students buzzing with excitement.

She catches a glimpse of Jeralt, seated at the far end of the hall and apparently enduring a particularly bad joke from Alois. Her father looks up, catching her eye, and mouths, ‘Save me,’ and she huffs and starts to make her way over, grabbing a plate.

“Good morning, Teach!” comes a call, and she blinks.

“Claude,” she greets, pausing by his table, where he’s flanked by Hilda. “It seems… busy today.”

“We’re all excited for the mock battle, is all,” he says. “It’s the first major event of the year, just a few days away.”

“Too few,” Hilda groans. “Professor Hanneman is a slave driver, I swear!”

Claude laughs and props his chin in his hand, beaming up at her. “Are you planning on participating?”

“...I don’t think so,” Byleth answers slowly. “Seteth has asked me to…” She hesitates. “_Chaperone_.”

He pouts. “A shame,” he says. “I was looking forward to seeing you in action again.”

“I’m always available to spar,” she offers.

“It’s not the same,” he sighs, mock-despondent, “although I might take you up on that offer.”

She nods absentmindedly, resisting the urge to rub her eyes.

“You alright, Professor?” Hilda chirps, eyes wide. “You seem kinda tired—”

Her round eyes are blank and lifeless, pink hair dark with dirt and blood, Claude hunched over her fallen body. His bow is a snapped mess on the ground, his clothes ragged.

“Well?” he says. He looks up at her. “What will you do now, Teach?”

Her sword is heavy in her hands. She raises it—

She twitches, lets out a shaky breath. “Just a long night,” she brushes off, like her knuckles aren’t bleached white from her grip on her tray. “Pardon—I should leave you to your meal.” She bows shallowly.

Claude raises a brow at her abrupt absconding. “See you around, Teach,” he says, waving, and Hilda flutters her fingers.

She leaves with a final nod, heading towards her father.

Jeralt arches a brow as she sits, eyes flickering back to Claude, and she shrugs wordlessly, spearing a piece of meat on her fork and bringing it to her mouth.

“Good morning, Professor!” Alois cheers. “A pleasure to see you!”

“Alois,” she acknowledges, significantly more subdued. Her head is throbbing, and her hand flexes against the table.

Her father leans forward a little. “You good, kid?” he asks softly.

She stares at her plate. “...Just some bad dreams,” she answers, quiet.

He sighs, patting her hand as he turns to distract Alois to let her eat in peace.

She’s grateful for his intervention, her mind a fluttering, uneasy mess. She eats as quickly as is polite and excuses herself from the table, barely acknowledging her father’s concerned gaze as she leaves.

She holes herself in her room for the rest of the day, working single mindedly on the notes for her next seminar. Sothis is silent throughout all of it, either sleeping or lost in thought.

She’s filled several sheets by the time the girl rouses, hands stained with ink and muscles stiff.

‘_How are you doing_?’ Sothis asks, slow.

“Fine,” she answers. Her vision swims, words blurring on the page, and she blinks rapidly,

‘_Liar_.’

Byleth huffs, pressing the heel of her hand against her eyes. “I’m fine,” she says again.

A knock at her door interrupts whatever the girl has to say next, and she rises wearily to answer.

Jeralt is on the other side, and she opens the door wider to let him in.

“Thanks,” he says, stepping through the threshold. He catches sight of the mess of notes on her table. “Burst of inspiration?”

“You could say that,” she mumbles. “Did you need something, Father?”

He hesitates. “I noticed,” he says, slowly, cautiously, “that you seemed… off, earlier. If it’s because of yesterday…”

Yesterday. Her mother’s grave—

Her family, dead and gone, children slaughtered like cattle—

Sothis shivers.

“It wasn’t,” Byleth manages. “It was just some dreams.”

Jeralt sighs. “That’s… good.” He rubs the back of his neck awkwardly. “You’re not usually… like that. I figured you might have been overwhelmed.”

Overwhelmed is certainly one way to put it.

“It’s just hard,” she says, “adjusting to life here. I missed you.”

He smiles a little. “I missed you, too,” he says. He lets out a breath. “I’m just… I’m just worried that this place isn’t good for you.”

“I’ll manage,” she replies simply. “It’s not like we can leave.”

His mouth twists in a wry smile. “Probably not,” he agrees.

He’s quiet for a moment, as if mulling over what he wants to say next, and Byleth looks up at him.

“You know you can talk to me about anything, right?” he says finally. “I’m here for you.”

She wants to. She wants to tell him everything, every petrifying dream, every crippling vision—

“Okay,” she says instead.

She can’t. This burden is hers alone. She won’t subject her father to it.

‘_Hypocrite_,’ something whispers.

Her father looks at her like he wanted her to say something else, but nods. “Okay,” he echoes gently. “I’ll leave you to it, kid. Don’t stay up too late.”

—

She stares at her bed.

‘_Well_?’ Sothis prompts.

Byleth swallows. “I—” she starts. Her hands flex uneasily at her sides. “Not yet,” she says finally, pushing away from her desk. “I’m going to… take a walk.”

Sothis hums doubtfully. ‘_Suit yourself,_’ she murmurs, drifting off to the corner of her mind.

Byleth slips out of her room, coat fluttering behind her in the late night breeze, and makes her way to the pond.

This late, the fishkeeper has long retired, the bait and rods stored away, so she makes her way down the dock. She eases down to sit at the edge, feet dangling a scant few inches over the water.

She takes a deep breath, staring out across the water.

She stays there until morning.


	12. in which they fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> once again, thank you all for your patience. college, to put it succinctly, is wack.

Sunday brings a seminar to teach.

It’s the usual suspects attending the swordsmanship and tactics lecture—Felix and Dorothea, with the addition of Leonie, Edelgard, and a girl she’s only seen in passing once or twice, accompanying Claude as they chatter away. Her mint hair falls in thick ringlets over her cheeks, her academy uniform so thoroughly altered it can hardly be called such.

“Hey, Teach!” Claude says, leading the girl to the front. “This is Flayn, Seteth’s sister. She’s not technically a student here, but I managed to sneak her away for the day.”

Flayn curtsies neatly, a faintly anxious smile plastered on her face. “Pleased to meet you, Professor,” she chirps. “My—ah—my brother has told me a great deal about you!”

Byleth thinks two things—the first is that she sincerely doubts that any amount of that “great deal” was flattering, and secondly, that in all of two sentences, Flayn has proven herself to be the worst liar she’s even seen.

“A pleasure,” she replies. “Please, take a seat—you’re welcome to attend the lecture.”

Flayn bows again and follows Claude to the front row of seats, dithering a bit before she actually manages to sit. It’s clear to see that the girl is nervous—whatever Seteth had told her, it clearly prompted her to exercise caution around Byleth.

Sothis’ interest flutters, attention piqued. ‘_She… looks like me_,’ she comments, and Byleth glances back at the girl—notes the rich green hair and bright eyes, a different tint but the same hue.

The impatient tap of Felix’s foot snaps her back to the present, and she shuffles her papers together, taking a breath, and begins the lecture.

—

The next couple days fly pass in a flurry—she’s accosted by Felix to spar twice in two days, Leonie just as many, and a dozen other students drop by to ask her for last minute advice— Edelgard in particular seems to be interested in discussing battle tactics, even after attending the seminar. Apparently, her practical experience with mercenary work makes her an attractive prospect compared to someone like Hanneman, who diverts his attention to scholarly pursuits, or Jeritza, who’s so cold and standoffish that her own personality seems mild in comparison. She barely manages to pry herself from her work long enough to eat meals with her father and Alois, and at night she wanders around the monastery in lieu of sleeping, lingering around the pond and greenhouse, catching at most an hour or two of restless sleep just before dawn when Sothis nags at her to rest.

Wednesday morning sees the mock battle, students buzzing with excitement. The houses gather on the sprawling fields just outside the monastery, accompanied by a small contingent of knights, Seteth and Jeralt among them.

She falls into step beside her father, who offers her a crooked half-smile as the adviser leads the knights to a hill overlooking the makeshift-battlefield.

“What do you think?” Jeralt asks. “Any bets on the winner?”

“It’ll be close,” she says, eyes scanning the grounds. “They have different strengths.” She watches as Claude directs his classmates to set up on the western end of the field, Edelgard doing the same in the northeast.

He makes a sound of acknowledgement. “This generation’s got some tough kids,” he says, the closest he’s come to praising them. He glances back down at her. “And if you had to put money on it?” he presses. He nudges her with his shoulder. “Whoever’s right buys the first round of drinks next weekend.”

Byleth watches as Manuela, Hanneman, and Jeritza attend to their respective classes, offering their last bits of advice before sending them on their way.

Her eyes flicker up to meet his, a tiny smile tilting her mouth. “The Eagles,” she decides.

Jeralt hums. “The Kingdom brats, for me,” he says. “Took enough jobs around there that I’ve got firsthand knowledge of how tough they are.”

This time Byleth is the one to nudge him. “Shake on it,” she says. “You can’t change your mind.”

He snorts, extending his hand, and Byleth takes it firmly, and—

Her vision blurs, blackness creeping around her peripherals, and she sways a little, blinking as she stares at their hands.

“Byleth?” Jeralt says, cautious.

She shudders like a dog shaking off water. “It’s nothing,” she says. “Just a little tired.”

His brow furrows. “I know you haven’t been sleeping well,” he says, and she almost laughs. “Are you overworked?”

“...Nightmares,” she says. “They’ll pass.” Her voice sounds fake, even to her. In the corner of her mind, Sothis snorts derisively.

He’s asked the question frequently over the past few days, and she’s given the same answer—I’m fine, it will pass, there’s no cause for worry—and tells him nothing of nights she spends, awake and dead-eyed, staring over the pond because she’s terrified of memories of things that have yet to come.

‘_Perhaps they_ have _passed_,’ Sothis comments snidely, ‘_but you won’t find out until you actually sleep, will you_?’

Byleth shushes her. Even though Sothis is undoubtedly as disturbed by the dreams as she is, the girl is clear about her disapproval.

Her father looks like he has more to say, but he’s interrupted by Seteth’s call of “Begin!”

Jeralt sends her one last concerned look before he turns his attention to the field, and Byleth does the same, watching the students scramble into action.

The Golden Deer are clever, playing around the scant cover of the forest and makeshift barricades, and the Blue Lions are hardy stock, skills sharpened by the kingdom’s climate, and while the Black Eagles lack the creativity of the Deer and the tenacity of the Lions, they make up for it in flawless coordination.

Felix and Dimitri lead the first rush into the underbrush, veritable one-man battalions as they charge the forest, Dedue, Sylvain, and Ingrid trailing behind.

The prince manages to strike down Raphael and Hilda in quick succession, the two slinking dejectedly (the latter, admittedly, less so) off the battlefield, before he’s ambushed by Claude, who lands a padded arrow between his shoulder blades. The Deer’s leader manages to pin down one more—Linhardt, who had been caught off guard—before he’s cornered by Edelgard and Hubert, who trap and eliminate him with almost mechanical efficiency.

From there, it’s a flurry of traded blows, and the crowd of students who leave the field grows rapidly, usually with bruised ribs and egos—Dedue lands a solid blow on Edelgard before Hubert forces him out, then Lysithea takes on the other mage with a well-timed Miasma.

Even out of the running, the house leaders watch the field with a critical eye as their pieces rearrange themselves on the board, until two remain—Bernadetta and Felix, the latter overpowering everyone in his path and the former… running.

Caspar buries his face in his hands and moans, “It’s _over_,” and Linhardt cuffs the back of his head, muttering, “Have some faith,” but even he seems doubtful.

“Hope they’re paying you well,” Jeralt snickers.

Edelgard, Byleth notices, is smiling.

The field turns into a game of cat and mouse, Bernadetta scrambling through the meager cover of the trees and barricades as she searches for her opponent with wide eyes. From Byleth’s vantage point, she can see Felix prowling behind the archer, just out of the girl’s line of sight, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.

He lunges, leaping from the underbrush, sword poised, and Bernadetta _shrieks_, and in the blink of an eye, his sword is sent skittering over the grass. Felix stumbles back, eyes wide, and a blunted arrow lands itself squarely in his ribs.

He falls with a wide-eyed wheeze, looking just about as shocked as his opponent.

There’s a several beats of stunned silence before Caspar breaks into raucous cheering, and the rest of the Black Eagles follow suit. Even the Golden Deer and Blue Lions join in, unable to resist the infectious energy—

The thunderous noise makes her twitch, and she bites her tongue.

Seteth blinks, seemingly shaking himself out of a stunned stupor, before he gathers himself and announces, “The winners of the mock-battle are the Black Eagles!”

“I’m sorry!” comes Bernadetta’s distant wail.

Jeralt groans. “Unbelievable,” he says, and Byleth forces herself to relax, her mouth quirking into a tiny smile.

“Get ready to pay up,” she says, and Jeralt huffs, glaring down at her from the corner of his eye.

“Brat,” he mutters fondly, and the knights herd the students together to escort them back to the monastery grounds, the other professors meeting back up with their students. She spots Manuela preening behind the Eagles, sending a smug smile at simmering Hanneman.

She can hear Caspar enthusiastically recounting the fight to the rest of the Eagles, even though they had all witnessed it not even three minutes prior. He claps Bernadetta on the back, who nearly jumps out of her skin at the contact.

“I can’t believe you beat _Felix_!” he cackles, and the girl abruptly pales.

“He’s going to hate me forever,” Bernadetta wheezes. “Or worse—he’s going to want to be my _rival_.”

“Having a rival like Felix would be a good way to encourage growth,” Edelgard muses.

Linhardt scoffs. “Or an early death.”

“Bernadetta,” comes a voice, and the student in question squeaks.

“Speak of the devil,” Hubert says dryly.

“I’m sorry please don’t kill me!” she blurts, whirling around to face Felix.

He frowns. “What?” he says.

“Don’t talk to her like that!” Caspar sputters, despite the fact that Felix had said all of two words.

“What,” Felix says again.

Caspar reddens, and, as Maneula is busy with a stare-off with Hanneman (moderated by a long-suffering Seteth, with Jeritza watching on the sidelines), Byleth steps in to avert what seems to be a budding fight.

“Good job,” she offers. “All of you.”

Bernadetta blinks, looking up. “P-Professor!” she squeaks.

Byleth smiles a little. “Especially you, Bernadetta,” she says softly. “Excellent work.”

The girl flushes, fiddling with her skirt. “Th-thank you.”

Edelgard bows at the waist. “Thank you, Professor,” she says. “Your guidance was invaluable.”

Felix’s frown deepens, and he looks away, arms crossed.

“You needed something, Felix?” Byleth prompts. Idly, she hopes her presence might inspire him to temper his bluntness, especially if it’s meant to be directed toward Bernadetta.

He pauses. “Ah,” he says, turning back to the other girl. “You.”

“Me?” Bernadetta sputters.

“Yes. You should spar with me.” Then, as if clarifying, “I won’t lose next time.”

“Terrifying,” Linhardt murmurs, barely audible, and it sounds like he’s only half-joking.

“Um,” Bernadetta says, looking like she’d rather be anywhere else.

“Oi, Felix!” Sylvain calls. “What are you doing over there? Fraternizing with the enemy, I see—_gah_! _Ingrid_—!”

Felix narrows his eyes, attention diverted to his classmate, and Bernadetta takes the opportunity to scamper behind Hubert’s taller frame, who seems considerably amused by the situation.

When the Blue Lion’s student turns back, he blinks, his target entirely out of sight, and glances around with visible confusion. Edelgard restrains a laugh with what must be a truly a truly Herculean effort.

“Where—?” Felix starts, bewildered.

Caspar does a dramatic double-take. Either he’s a better actor than Byleth gives him credit for, or he really hasn’t been paying attention.

“A little help!” Sylvain shouts. “Ingrid’s going to kill me!”

The boy sends a final scowl to the group of Black Eagles—all of whom are putting on the greatest show of obliviousness Byleth has ever seen—before stalking off to rejoin his class.

There’s a loud, relieved sigh that sounds from behind Hubert, and the rest of the students dissolve into laughter.

“Clever,” Byleth comments, wryly amused.

Bernadetta peeks out from behind her makeshift hiding spot. “He’s gone, right?” she says.

“For now,” Linhardt huffs. “He’s going to be insufferable.”

“Easy for you to say!” Bernadetta cries. “He won’t be hunting _you_ down for sport!”

“Alright, alright, settle down,” Jeralt interrupts. “We’re heading back to the monastery. You winners get the rest of the day off, so if you want to argue, do it when we get back.”

“Thank the goddess,” Linhardt says through a yawn. “I wouldn’t be able to stay awake after all that effort.”

“You wouldn’t stay awake regardless,” Edelgard ripostes, the same time Caspar accuses, “You were, like, the first one eliminated!”

Linhardt shrugs noncommittally, making another half-hearted comment—

Byleth doesn’t catch it, too distracted by the sudden flash as Seteth’s hair catches the light and shines a bright, brilliant green, the color so achingly familiar that her chest hurts with it.

“Let’s get a move on,” she hears Jeralt say, “unless you’d rather spend your hard-earned free time out here.”

With that, the students finally allow themselves to be shepherded out, and Byleth trails after them, longing for something she can’t quite remember.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (Edit) time for some news: I’ve been accepted to write in a couple of fe3h zines! wowee  
However, this means that updates might a a little less frequent in the next couple months as i juggle college and zine work—probably monthly or bi-weekly updates (i dont know what the hell i was smoking to write four (4) chapters in September but what i would give to find some more of it)  
In the meantime you can follow my on twitter (@jael_dub) for updates and chapter sneak-peaks if you’d like! Thank you so much for sticking with me ^_^


	13. in which she gets admonished

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -slaps this down- whew. i was sitting on like 600 words of this for three weeks and then sat down and wrote the rest in like. two days. unreal

They’ve only just arrived at the monastery when Byleth peels away from the main group. Whatever yearning she had felt had unsettles her, and she’s intent on avoiding the man who caused it.

Of course, that is the exact moment Seteth chooses to call to her.

“Professor,” he says, raising his voice to carry over the din of the students and market-goers. “Professor!”

She stops in her tracks with a barely restrained sigh, turning as Seteth skirts around the crowd to reach her. “Yes?” she says politely, even as Sothis stirs at the familiar hue of his hair and eyes.

He adjusts the collar of his robes as he nears, then folds his hands behind his back. “I have something I wish to discuss with you. Perhaps we might speak in private?” he suggests.

Sothis snickers as Byleth restrains a sigh with a truly herculean effort, nodding resignedly.

She follows him up the steps to the entrance hall, offering a nod to the gatekeeper who snaps to attention as soon as he catches sight of them, and Seteth leads her to an alcove, stopping when they’re at a suitable distance from the others.

He draws himself up before he speaks, mouth set in a stern line that seems less foreboding to her than exasperating the more she sees it. “Perhaps you’ve become aware of rumors of a ghost that are rapidly spreading among the students,” he begins without preamble.

She blinks. She hasn’t—she pays attention to a great many things, but schoolyard rumors are not one of them—but stays quiet. She’s not entirely sure how a specter pertains to her.

Seteth sends her a stern look, but when she says nothing, he sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. “Professor,” he says, with a great deal of restraint, “I have reason to believe that the ghost is, in fact, you.”

She frowns. “Me?”

“‘A black-coated figure wandering the fishing pond and greenhouse at night.’” he recites. “It should sound familiar.”

There’s a beat of silence.

“...Ah,” she realizes. “I see.”

“I should hope so,” Seteth replies, dry in a fashion that he typically reserves for Manuela. “Surely you understand my involvement, then.”

She twitches. “It is not affecting my work in any way,” she says, carefully blank.

His frown deepens, but he doesn’t quite look displeased. Rather, the furrow in his brow seems more worried than anything. “While I am pleased to hear of your commitment to your position, my decision to confront you is not so much my concern for your work as it is my concern for you.”

For a moment, she’s startled into silence.

“I—” she starts, stumbling over her words. “I’m grateful for your… concern,” she manages, and Sothis makes a contemplative noise that she brushes off. It’s hard enough to carry a conversation, especially one with Seteth, and having an audience with commentary doesn’t make it easier.

“I understand that we have not been on the best of terms since your arrival,” he says, “but please know that I do not wish any ill will towards you, and that I do care for your health.” He pauses, covering his mouth with a hand, apparently self-conscious.

“I have found,” Seteth offers eventually, cautious and careful like he’s picking his way down a steep cliff, “that sleep comes easier after hard training.”

“I will take it into consideration,” she says diplomatically. It’s obvious advice, but valid.

“I would offer my assistance, but I find my schedule is otherwise occupied,” he continues, a little rushed and awkward, as if showing concern for her is physically paining him. “However, I’m sure you can find someone that will be able to provide adequate training.”

‘_Curious man_,’ Sothis observes. Byleth can’t see her, but she imagines the girl is idly twirling a lock of hair around her finger, contemplating the color.

“...I appreciate the sentiment,” Byleth offers finally.

Seteth exhales, the furrow of his brow tinged with exasperation. “I have said my piece,” he says. “I will take my leave, unless you have anything else to discuss.”

She opens her mouth to say her sendoff, but pauses as something crosses her mind.

“Flayn,” she says abruptly, barely thinking about it. “Your… sister.”

Seteth stills. “What about her?” he asks, guarded.

“I’ve… met her,” Byleth says lamely. “Recently. Claude brought her to a lecture.”

Seteth sighs through his nose, bringing a hand up to pinch the bridge of it. “Claude,” he echoes.

Byleth raises her brow slightly, sending a silent apology to the boy for bringing the wrath of the adviser upon him.

“She seems like a kind girl,” she says, like a distraction. “Very polite. Does she attend the academy?”

“Not in any formal capacity,” Seteth replies stiffly. “She lives here out of… obligation to my position. We are each other’s only family. I would not have her be alone, after all we’ve been through.”

He’s protective, she notes, likely for good reason, if they are alone at their age—Seteth is difficult to pin, but Flayn looks young.

“I see,” she says, avoiding Sothis’ addition of, ‘_They could be older than they look._’

She supposes that she might understand them, to some extent—she lost her mother, after all, but her memories are so non-existent that she’d never felt the loss at all.

“I just wanted to say,” Byleth says, “that she is welcome to attend my lectures if she so pleases, student or not. I am willing to accommodate.”

Seteth pauses at that, expression shifting from cautious to… still cautious, but thoughtful. Reevaluating, perhaps. “Thank you for your consideration.”

She bows shallowly and Seteth returns it with a nod of acknowledgement, and she turns to leave, making her way past the gardens and ignoring the way Seteth’s gaze weighs heavy on her back.

‘_I knew it_,’ Sothis sniffs. ‘_You were bound to get into trouble because of your deplorable habits._’

“Nobody was supposed to notice,” Byleth mutters back, not quite a defense.

The girl snorts derisively and Byleth grimaces, pausing once she turns the corner to lean against the cool stone of the wall and massage her temples.

She does need to rest, loathe as she is to admit it—but to hear it from Seteth, of all people, does nothing for her reluctance.

Watching the students fight had filled her with thrumming anticipation, though, so she acquiesces to his suggestion of training—perhaps one of her father’s mercenaries will be available to spar, in lieu of the man himself.

She shrugs off her coat as she makes her way to the training grounds, folding it over her arm as she pushes past the gates.

It’s the middle of the day, so the students who didn’t attend the mock-battle are in classes or on break, and the rest of the faculty busy with their duties. Training partners will be sparse, but even lacking an opponent, she’s sure she can drill herself to exhaustion if needed.

She doesn’t expect Jeritza to be there, demolishing a training dummy with barely restrained killing intent. He stops at the creak of the gate, wiping a line of sweat where it trickles down from his mask as he turns her way. He must have headed straight here just after the mock-battle, while she had been way-laid by Seteth.

The flash of eagerness in his eyes is enough to put her on edge.

“Here to spar?” he asks. There’s anticipation in his words, even with the slow, deliberate pace of his speech. She remembers hearing about his lust for battle and his constant search for ‘worthy opponents,’ and the fact that she’s apparently made the list

_Heard it where?_ something in her head interrupts, and she freezes, lines between memories blurring.

She shakes off the confusion to unpack at a later date, nodding stiffly.

Jeritza doesn’t quite smile, but satisfaction rolls off in waves, turning to the weapons rack to grab another weapon, and she throws her coat to the side.

She catches the sword he tosses her way, the weight unexpectedly heavy for a practice sword—

She only has the briefest moment to process that he’s handed her a naked steel blade before the glint of his own sword racing down on her galvanizes her into action.

She whips up her sword on reflex to block the blow, the screech of metal-on-metal grating against her ears, and she forces him away to disengage, taking two steps back to get enough space to breath.

He’s tall, something in her mind reminds her, and his reach is much longer, and she skips back an extra step just in time for Jeritza’s blade to whistle past her nose.

The closeness of the almost-blow nearly makes her flinch, but she hasn’t survived as a mercenary this long to be startled by _almost_.

As soon as the sword passes she darts back in—his sweeps were always too broad, leaves him open for a moment after the strike—and braces her off hand against the flat of her blade as she shoves him down.

Jeritza falls back, teeth gritted, but she doesn’t expect the hand that shoots out to grab the tassel of her medallion, yanking her down with him. She tosses her sword on reflex so she doesn’t accidentally impale herself on impact.

She lands on his chest and he grunts at her weight, but grabs her and twists so he’s the one on top.

Byleth tenses, drawing her knees up to her chest to kick him off before he can properly pin her. Her heel digs harshly into his stomach and he winces, grip loosening, and she flips them over again, unsheathing the dagger on her belt and pressing the flat of the blade against his throat in the same motion.

Jeritza is so still she doubts he’s even daring to draw breath, eyes overbright and wild.

They’re close enough that she feels the heat radiating from him, smells the dust of the training ground, and—

They’re back to back, his warmth seeping into her bones even through the weave of her coat. The cold, musty air of Shambhala seems all the more frigid because of it.

“No end to these pests,” he rumbles, discontent. “No challenge, either.”

“When we return to Enbarr, I’ll spar with you,” she replies lightly.

She feels him shift, readying his sword as hooded figures emerge from the ruins. “Good—”

Byleth sucks in a sharp breath, reeling back like she’s been struck, and scrambles off of him. It feels uncannily similar to the first time they fought. She shakes off the familiar disconcertion, grounding herself with the sensation of her teeth digging into her cheek.

Her knuckles are white as she sheathes her dagger, hands flexing anxiously. Jeritza is still _looking_ at her as he stands, pale eyes gleaming in the shadow of his mask, and there is a thin red line across his throat where the edge of her blade had roughed the skin.

“Again,” he says, reaching for the swords on the ground.

“With practice weapons,” she demands. She still feels the chill of the shadow of a distant memory—a different one, where he wields a scythe, the very figure of death. She doesn’t want to be holding a real blade when she remembers in full.

Jeritza grimaces but concedes, setting the swords back on the rack and grabbing wooden versions.

The lighter weight makes her relax minutely, the prospect an accidental death at a comfortable distance, and she widens her stance.

“Ready,” she calls, then lunges in the same breath.

The sound of their swords meeting is much more muted than before, a hard clack as Jeritza parries and counters with a swing of his own. She redirects with the flat of her sword, her blade sliding down his to the crossguard, before she puts weight into it and _shoves_.

He stumbles, but it’s not much—he has over a foot of height and Goddess knows how many pounds on her—but he gives an inch and she takes a mile, pouncing on his imbalance to force him back.

He adjusts quickly, blocking entirely on reflex for the first few strikes before he compensates and meets her blows with his own.

Jeritza, she thinks between strikes, is an excellent sparring partner, obvious concerns aside. At risk of hubris, she considers herself to be an excellent swordsman—to find someone at her caliber is rare enough, and one that she isn’t facing on a real battlefield even rarer.

He poises for a thrust, and she sidesteps, twisting so that the tip of his sword skids across her cuirass, but he flicks his wrist and redirects in the motion that she turns to lunge. 

Her blade stops at his throat; the point of his sword digs into the tender skin just below her collar.

They both freeze, panting heavily.

“A draw?” she suggests.

He adjusts his grip on the hilt, tightening it until she can hear his gloves creak with the pressure.

The gates rattle open, and the two of them whirl around, weapons pointed at the intruder—

Who happens to be a wide-eyed, slightly bemused Mercedes.

“Oh!” she says, curtsying. “Hello, Professors.”

Jeritza murmurs, “Mercedes,” barely audible, even as close as they are. Byleth glances at him, but only catches the corner of his mask as he turns away.

She lets out a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding, lowering her sword. “Mercedes,” she greets. “What brings you here?”

The student smiles benignly. “Professor Jeritza was late to a lecture,” she says. “I thought I might find him here.”

The man in question grimaces. “I will be along shortly,” he says. “Apologies.”

‘_So teaching doesn’t agree with him_,’ Sothis says wryly, ‘_if he’s avoiding his responsibilities as such._’

Byleth is inclined to agree. Jeritza’s demeanor doesn’t seem particularly nurturing, no matter his skill with the sword, and he seems better suited to a place among the knights corp than as an instructor.

Mercedes waves back at her as she leads her reluctant professor back to class, and Byleth can’t help but notice that the ribbons that they tie their hair with are identical.


	14. in which she gets assigned

There’s a dull ache that forms in her muscles as she continues her drills. Normally she wouldn’t push herself so harshly, but the long weeks of stagnation and the remnants of electric energy from her spar with Jeritza linger around her like a miasma that needs to be burned away.

Swords, axes, lances—she practices them all, falling into familiar patterns and paces, except—

Except she shouldn’t be so familiar. She’s a swordsman at heart, and despite her father’s proficiency, his lessons on lances never stuck with her the way swords did, unwieldy and more dissimilar than even axes. But as she sweeps the air, the shaft blurring with the speed she spins it with, it feels just as at home in her hands as any other weapon.

She drags the point across the ground, flinging dust into the air and she twists and leaps in a graceful arc and slams the weapon down, and the lance—

The lance breaks.

She stares down at the splintered wood in her hands, and Sothis makes a disgusted noise.

‘_Careless_,’ she says, and Byleth quietly agrees. She’s been getting sloppy, easily distracted—the kind of inattention that would get her killed.

She sighs, setting aside the mangled weapon with a wordless apology to the blacksmith.

“That’s enough for now,” she mutters, wiping a line of sweat from her brow, and her stomach rumbles.

Sothis snickers.

—

“Professor Byleth?”

The unfamiliar voice makes her pause, and a boy trots up to her. Compared to most of the monastery residents, his clothes are simple and plain, with warm brown skin and an unruly mess of dark curls. He looks up at her with bright, keen eyes—he looks too young for the scar that adorns his brow.

“Yes?” she offers tentatively.

“Lady Rhea asked for you,” he delivers. “She wants you to meet her in the audience chamber.”

“Of course. When?”

“Now, I think. I’m supposed to bring you.”

Byleth sighs, glancing wistfully at the dining hall and then down at her seat-soaked shirt. She’s hardly in any state to be meeting with the archbishop.

The boy stares up at her with earnest eyes until she relents and nods.

“Thank you—ah…?”

“Cyril,” he supplies, turning to lead the way. “I’m Lady Rhea’s helper.”

Now that she’s thinking, she remembers seeing him around the monastery, diligently toiling at all manner of chores—working the stables, chopping firewood, any sort of manual labor that needs to be done (and she thinks, dryly, that Hilda may be able to learn a thing or two from him), remembers—

Remembers that he’s far too young for battle, too small to straddle a wyvern properly, but Rhea lets him fly out all the same, lets him get shot down by arrows with nothing more than a pitying frown as she escapes the monastery—

Cyril glances back at her, and she obligingly follows, weaving through the hedges then up the stairs.

When they reach the doors, Cyril nods, ready to scamper off to his next job, and she lifts her hand in a wave. He blinks, pauses, and cautiously waves back.

She allows herself a tiny smile before she pushes past the doors to the audience chamber.

Rhea is waiting, as expected, alongside a slightly harried-looking Seteth.

“Professor,” the archbishop greets warmly, and Byleth bows shallowly.

“You asked for me, Lady Archbishop?”

Rhea nods, an austere tilt of her head. “The Golden Deer have been assigned to rout a bandit encampment the end of Harpstring Moon. I would like you to join them and oversee their efforts.”

Seteth stiffens, head whipping around. “Rhea,” he murmurs lowly, like he has something more to say, but the archbishop doesn’t so much as spare him a glance.

Byleth blinks under the weight of Rhea’s stare, then slowly nods. “Of course, Archbishop,” she says.

Rhea smiles, the picture of benevolence, and dismisses her with a delicate incline of her head.

Byleth bows out gracefully, heels clicking against the stone as she exits, the heavy doors thudding shut behind her.

The guards, she notices, are absent, likely tending to duties somewhere else on the floor, and if she concentrates, she can barely make out the lilt of voices from the audience chamber.

She shouldn’t, but—

‘_What was it that the Riegan boy said? The first step to information-gathering is eavesdropping?_’ Sothis chimes, unhelpfully.

“I would hardly think you would be one to take Claude’s advice,” Byleth replies dryly, but she takes two steps to the side, so her shadow doesn’t show through the gap at the bottom of the door, and listens.

“...were you thinking, Rhea?” Seteth is saying. “I thought we agreed that the Knights of Seiros were to accompany them. Imagine if anything were to go wrong, to leave it all to the hands of a single mercenary—”

“You know that no child of Jeralt could be reduced to a mere mercenary,” Rhea replies primly. “She is far more than that. I can think of no one better to reclaim Zanado.”

Even through the thick wood of the door, Byleth can hear Seteth’s strangled, frustrated noise as clearly as if she had been standing next to him, and can just as easily picture the man’s face, mouth twisted in a grimace of consternation.

“Rhea, I have been by your side long enough that I can say that I trust you,” he says, “but, _please_, you must talk to me. I cannot advise you if I know nothing of your actions. Do you not trust me as your confidant?”

There’s a beat of silence. “Forgive me, Seteth,” Rhea says, softer, weary. “But I must ask you to wait just a while longer for your answers. I promise you, things will be made clear.”

Byleth’s mouth is suddenly very dry.

“She knows,” she murmurs to Sothis, missing whatever reply Seteth offers.

‘_Perhaps_,’ the girl says. ‘_But I believe the question is not necessarily if she knows, but how much she knows, and if you’ll do anything about it._’

Byleth exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I don’t know yet.”

—

Hanneman bustles up to her the next day, eyes crinkled with satisfaction. “Professor Byleth!” he greets. “It seems that we are to work together in this coming month.”

“...It seems so,” she replies cautiously.

“Then it would be in our best interests if we got to know each other better, no?”

“Would you like me to assist in lecture again?” Byleth says. She’d rather do that than be subjected to his crest research, she thinks.

Hanneman twirls the end of his mustache, which seems to greatly amuse Sothis. “I would not be averse to the idea.”

‘_Which means_,’ the girl comments, ‘_that his students are too rowdy for him to control_.’

Byleth considers his charges—the immensely clever Claude, the overbearing Lorenz, the lackadaisical Hilda, just to begin with—and hides a wince. “What can I… help with?”

“I have thoroughly covered lectures,” Hanneman says, “but the fact of the matter is my strengths lie in theory rather than… practical instruction, shall we say.”

She’s not entirely sure whether she prefers that. Her strengths lie in sparring, but the more direct her contact with the students, the more long-dead memories resurface, the more sleepless her nights—not that she’d been getting any sleep at all.

Hanneman is still staring at her expectantly, though, so she nods. “Of course—whatever you need.”

“Ah, wonderful! Whenever you’re next available would be ideal.”

“I’ll let you know,” she says, somewhat absently, and leaves to go fish, Hanneman waving merrily at her back.

—

Her next availability ends up being two days later, and Hanneman drops the class off at the training grounds around midmorning and promptly disappears, leaving her to wrangle the students by herself.

“Weapons,” she instructs, and they scamper to pick out wooden lances and bows.

“Two groups,” she orders once they return, “boys in one and girls in the other.”

The students glance at each other before shuffling together.

“Boys first. Come at me with all you’ve got,” she says. “Starting now.”

Ignatz and Claude immediately scramble back, going for distance to use their bows while Lorenz and Raphael close the gap.

Claude strafes, trying to find an angle to nick her without taking out one of his classmates, and she pivots to keep him in the corner of her eye. She easily deflects a hasty thrust from Lorenz’s lance, then backsteps as Raphael lunges at her, tripping the larger boy as he hurtles past and sending him careening into Ignatz.

She uses the ensuing panic to disarm a distracted Lorenz, who lets out an undignified yelp as she raps his knuckles with the flat of her wooden blade, then neatly picks the lance from his loosened grip and tosses it aside.

In the next beat she’s crossed the span between her and Claude, and the boy half-skips, half-stumbles back, trying to maintain enough distance that he can aim properly.

Unfortunately, Byleth is faster going forward than he is going back, and she hooks her sword between the bow and string and twists. The wood creaks and splits, and Claude lets go with a wince, shaking splinters from his hands as the ruined bow falls to the ground.

She levels her sword at him. “Yield?”

Keen eyes flicker between her and her blade before he heaves an exaggerated sigh, raising his hands placatingly. “Yield.”

She lowers her sword as Raphael and Ignatz finally disentangle themselves, both of them red-faced and ashamed.

“Good attempt,” she offers.

“Was it?” Lysithea says archly, and Claude makes a face.

“I imagine we would perform better in a more balanced group,” he says. “Two archers, a brawler, a cavalier without a horse—” He shrugs. “I’m not terribly surprised.”

“A valid point,” Byleth says. “In an ideal situation, you’d be able to account for your terrain and enemies and choose your soldiers appropriately.” She allows him a moment to preen before she continues. “However, situations are rarely ideal. In most cases, it is more important to accurately assess your teammates capabilities than the capabilities themselves.”

She points. “Tracking your allies’ movements is one of the most important skills you can learn, especially as an archer. By keeping Lorenz between myself and Claude, I significantly reduced the chance that Claude would risk a shot. On a battlefield, where it is more chaotic, the risk of friendly fire is even greater.” She turns to Lorenz and Raphael. “It’s important to communicate with your team and learn to disengage. Taking down an enemy is all well and good, but you’re not always the one who will be suited for the task.”

Claude exhales gustily. “Still, a little disappointing that we didn’t manage to so much as nick you.”

“I’m a professor for a reason,” she says dryly. “They day you’re able to defeat me, I’ll consider my job done.”

“A dark day indeed,” he quips.

She arches a brow, waving him away. “Next group.”

Hilda pouts. “I’m really not suited for this, Professor,” she says, batting her lashes. “I mean, swinging around weapons all day is a job for someone with muscle! You know, like Raphael.”

“Maybe I should have you run laps, then,” Byleth replies mildly, not missing a beat. “Build up some ‘muscle.’”

Hilda pales and abruptly goes quiet.

—

The girls fair slightly better than their counterparts, but Byleth disassembles them with pinpoint accuracy, taking advantage of Leonie’s brashness to throw her off balance before focusing her efforts on Lysithea.

The mage is a powerhouse of unprecedented proportions, so she uses special tomes during practice to prevent craters, even considering her prodigal control. Even with that, the magic channeled through them is enough to leave a mark.

Byleth dances around a bolt of weakened Miasma, batting away Hilda’s half-hearted blow and sending the other girl in sprawling the same motion. She sweeps Lysithea’s legs out from under her and the girl falls with a squawk, twisting and lunging for Marianne when a lance thrust from Leonie forces her to change her course.

The last two put up a decent fight, Leonie providing a capable distraction while Marianne fires off bursts of white magic, but Byleth catches the upper hand when she ducks in too close for a lance to be useful, tapping Leonie’s head with the flat of her sword before doing the same to Marianne.

“Done,” Byleth says. “Good job. Now let’s do it again.”

“Ow,” Hilda says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> everytime seteth tries to have a conversation with rhea about byleth he very rapidly goes through the five stages of grief  
(also you bet your ass im putting my nasty sewer rat children in this fic)  
(also p2 pre-ts cyril is 4’10”. hey rhea? rhea? why’d you give him a wyvern? he’s Too Small.)  
(also p3 i'm a mod for the pokemon/fe3h zine at https://twitter.com/fe3hpokemonzine! our writer and artist applications are open until feb 15, please come check us out!)


	15. in which she leads

She’s getting worse.

She finds herself growing more distant as they days go by, vision blurring and drifting off at inopportune moments.

It comes to a head midspar with her father, her vision fully blacking over, and she stumbles and pitches forward—and receives the blunted tip of a lance to her head for her troubles.

Byleth flops bonelessly to the ground, staring at the sky as her vision swims in a blur of blue. “Ow,” she says.

Jeralt curses, dropping the practice weapon to the ground as he kneels beside her. “The hell, kid? How’d you let that hit you?”

“...Dunno,” she slurs, blinking away stars.

He snaps his fingers in front of her eyes. “Oi, don’t pass out on me.”

“I’m not,” she replies, almost petulant. She eases herself upright, dabbing gingerly at the rapidly-forming bruise on her temple. She winces.

It could be worse, she thinks. They could have been using real weapons.

‘_Or one of your students could have seen that pathetic display_,’ Sothis says snidely.

...Or that, Byleth concedes.

“Alright,” Jeralt says, pulling her to her feet, “that’s enough of that. Go get some rest. Or whatever you do with your free time.”

He looks tired. Not in the same way as she does, sleep-deprived and driven into the ground by work, but the slope of his shoulders and the creases at his brow scream exhaustion.

“...Sorry,” she mumbles.

Jeralt sighs, mouth softening into a rueful smile. He pats her on the shoulder before pushing her towards the gates. “Just take care of yourself, kid.”

* * *

The thought lingers. If they had been using real weapons, she would be dead.

If the fight had been real, and her students were in danger, she wouldn’t be able to protect them.

She stares at the reflection of the moon on the pond, rippling and wavering when fish skim the surface of the water.

“Sothis,” she says quietly, and the girl stirs, unfurling like a stretching cat.

‘_What is it?’_

“...I think I want to sleep.”

‘_About time_,’ Sothis sniffs, but softens her tone. ‘It_ is difficult, I know, but you are harming yourself. We will find a way to deal with the memories, but it will not be like this._’

Byleth yawns until her jaw aches, tugging her coat tighter around her to ward off the evening chill. “Not like this,” she murmurs, and trudges back to her room.

* * *

A bed has never looked less appealing.

She lies down stiffly, staring blankly up at the murky darkness of the ceiling. She’s exhausted, but can’t bring herself to close her eyes.

Sothis materializes at her side, but she can’t even muster the energy to flinch.

“You still cannot sleep? Troublesome girl,” Sothis scoffs.

A tiny hand reaches the brush aside her dark bangs, but it phases through with nothing but a faint, tingling warmth.

“‘M sorry,” Byleth mumbles.

“Shush.”

Sothis sits by her side, although no weight dips the bed, humming absentmindedly.

Byleth throws an arm over her eyes, inhaling deeply. “I’m not a child,” she says. “I don’t need a lullaby to sleep.” Not like she’d ever had that luxury, with no mother to speak of and a father who, despite all his strengths, often lacked a delicate touch.

“_Shush_,” Sothis says again, firmer but somehow even more gentle, and Byleth quiets.

Lilting, murmured song drifts through the room, low and soothing, the memory of warmth on her brow where Sothis brushes her hair, lulling her to sleep like drifting into deep water.

And so, for the first time in days, she sleeps.

* * *

With the knowledge that Byleth is willing to take over lessons considering their upcoming mission together, Hanneman apparently decides that leaving her to lead practicals is the best course of action.

The students themselves don’t seem terribly distraught over the change in instructor—except for perhaps Hilda, who looks rather miffed that she can’t sleep away lectures. (Doubly so, now that Byleth is sharper and more alert than she has been in days. Even Claude commented on it, offhandedly yet somehow pointedly, how the shadows under her eyes had disappeared and how she seems awfully spry that day, and how is she feeling?)

Byleth is watchful, and she has less than a month to prepare these children (—‘_Children? They’re hardly younger than you,_’ Sothis scoffs—) for what might very well be the first real battle of their lives.

“Axes,” she says to the cluster of students, “are the most common weapon used by bandits. They don’t require as much skill to wield as swords and are sturdier than lances.” She taps the head of the practice weapon against her palm, testing the weight of it. “They are heavy, high power weapons that don’t require a lot of strength to be effective.

“The downsides,” she continues, “are that the same weight that makes them so useful makes them clumsy to wield.”

Claude is watching her with rapt attention. His gaze is almost piercing, sharp and keen and almost disassembling. He’s looking for something, but she has no idea what it could be. A chink in her armor, perhaps, some crack in her distant, unaffected mask.

“Today you will be facing me, one on one,” she says, and Hilda groans. “You will be learning to counter axe techniques with the weapon of your preference. Any volunteers?”

There’s a beat before Claude sighs. “I’ll bite,” he says. “Nothing like getting the tar beat out of me first thing in the morning.”

“I’ll be gentle,” she replies dryly, twirling her wooden axe.

He beams at her. “I’ll be in your care, Teach.”

The students scatter to the edges of the training ground, leaving her and Claude in the center.

“Ready,” she calls, and his first move, predictably, is to skip back, putting as much distance between them as he can.

“Bows are a good counter,” she explains levelly, sidestepping his first arrow. “They are the best way to avoid facing them head on. The weight of an axe will slow down your opponent and leave them more vulnerable to ranged attacks.”

“Doesn’t seem to be slowing you down much,” Claude grouses, strafing and for trying another shot.

A flick of her wrist sends the arrow clattering harmlessly to the ground. “Wood is lighter than iron,” she replies easily, turning the axe over in her hand to observe the new scratch. “Good, Claude.”

His brow furrows, eyes narrowing as notches another arrow, a second loose in his hand.

Her mouth curls in a faint smile. He’s taking this seriously.

His next shot flies straight for her chest and she twirls around it, coat billowing, and she almost doesn’t expect the arrow that’s targeted perfectly at her next step.

Almost.

She got the wrong side facing him, her off-hand instead of her weapon, so deflecting isn’t an option, and she catches the smallest glimpse of Claude’s upturned mouth, and she knows that he thinks he has her— and of course that won’t stand.

So, all grace and deftness, she catches the arrow as it sails towards her, grabbing out of the air scant inches from her collar.

“Good,” she says calmly, and Claude gapes at her, arms dropping to hang limply at his sides.

Sothis snickers.

“That was awesome!” Raphael cheers. “Professor, you gotta teach us how to do that!”

“I don’t think that’s something that can be taught,” Lysithea mutters beside him.

Byleth restrains a smile, lowering her axe and relaxing. “Very good, Claude,” she calls, and his mouth snaps shut with an audible click. “Most would have been led straight into the second shot. Excellent predictions.”

He bows theatrically, stepping back.

“Hilda,” Byleth says. “Your turn, please.”

The girl twirls a lock of pink hair around her finger. “Professor,” she wheedles, “I really don’t think I should. I’ll just make a fool out of myself in front of everyone! I wouldn’t want to disappoint you, after all.”

“I would never be disappointed in you failing at something you attempt,” Byleth says, “only if you didn’t try at all.”

Hilda freezes, fully freezes, like her house’s namesake staring down a wolf, and she’s silent long enough that Byleth starts to wonder if she’s said something wrong when the student finally mumbles a quiet, “Okay.”

There are several pairs of raised brows among the onlookers as Hilda obediently plods onto the field, axe loose at her side.

Byleth offers a half-smile. “Hilda,” she says, lowering her voice so that only the two of them can hear, “I meant it. I would never be disappointed in your results as long as you tried.”

Hilda pauses, looking up at her, and for a moment something like gratitude flickers over her face before it’s replaced by exaggerated disgruntlement. “Ugh,” the girl says loudly, shouldering her axe. “Let’s just get this over with.”

* * *

The weeks seem to fly by, and the date of the mission is upon them before she’s entirely satisfied by the students’ performance.

‘_You are a grueling taskmaster_,’ Sothis says. ‘_I don’t understand your standards. Were you expecting to create an army of Ashen Demons within a month?_’

“I was more proficient than them at that age,” she mutters.

‘_You were raised on a battlefield by a man who knows little more than riding horses and beating people with a stick_,’ Sothis huffs. ‘_They are not you. Some are even coddled nobles. You cannot compare the two_.’

“My father knows more than that,” Byleth says.

‘_Like what? Certainly not cooking, if the smell of his stews are anything to go by_.’

Byleth’s rousing defense of Jeralt is interrupted by the bustle of arriving students, tailed by Hanneman.

“Zanado Canyon is located within the Oghma Mountains, just west of Garreg Mach,” she hears him explaining, pitching his voice to carry over the clamor of the students. “While the journey is not terribly long, the mountains require great care to traverse. Please be careful—”

At that exact moment Ignatz yelps and stumbles, and only the timely interference of Raphael prevents him from hitting the ground. The boy turns bright red, sputtering apologies and something about a loose cobblestone.

Hanneman sighs. “As I said,” he continues, “exercise caution.”

* * *

The hike through the Oghma is difficult, but not terribly grueling. The thin, cold air and unfettered sunlight are an unpleasant combination, though, the chill constantly battling the sharp heat of the sun.

Claude and Leonie take to the mountains like goats, she notes scampering up to the highest points to survey the area while the others trail far behind—particularly Lysithea and Marianne. Hanneman himself doesn’t seem to be fairing especially well, either.

At the very least, Zanado isn’t far from the monastery, the stone turning a deep, burnt red as they venture deeper into the mountains.

Something about the color makes a shiver run down her spine that has nothing to do with the cold, Sothis’ presence an uneasy prickle in the corners of her mind.

“The red color,” Hanneman is explaining enthusiastically to surprisingly engaged Lysithea, “comes from the iron deposits within the rock. Allegedly, Zanado was home to the Goddess and her children, and there are remnants of an ancient civilization, but the canyon has been abandoned for centuries, now— ”

Oh, Byleth realizes. She knows this place. This is where—

This is where her children died, helpless against weapons crafted from the bones of their mother, spine and ribs twisted in a mockery of their lifegiver. Red on red, blood on iron, blood on bone, and she sleeps through it, her heart in the center of the blade that spills it all—

“_Sothis_,” she hisses, and everything stops as abruptly as it started. She bites her cheek until she tastes blood, restraining the growl that bubbles up unbidden in her chest.

“You’re slacking, Teach!” comes Claude’s distant call, and when she looks up she finds that she’s lagged behind.

She quickens her pace to catch up, stiff and sharp, and she forces herself to relax before she reaches the students clustering at the edge overlooking the canyon.

“We’re here,” Hanneman announces. “According to the church’s scouts the bandits’ encampment will be just beyond that ridge. They’ve likely spotted us coming, so remain alert and ready for battle.”

There’s a chorus of, “Yes, Professor,” the students breaking off into groups to perform last-minute weapons checks.

Hanneman offers a brief incline of his head as she approaches, looking out over their battlefield.

"Two groups, perhaps," he offers speculatively, like they're commenting on the weather and not their students' lives, "split up and led by you and me."

"A main group to the north," Byleth says. "I can cover the west--I won't need many to hold the bridge."

"They'll be in your care," he replies agreeably, and she nods.

“Leonie, Marianne, with me,” she calls. “We’ll cover the southwest bridge.”

“Good luck!” comes Raphael’s shout, and Leonie grins, flicking a salute, and Marianne ducks her head.

Byleth hesitates before turning back to Hanneman. 

“I’ll send the students back if anything happens,” she murmurs lowly to him. “If they come, watch for enemies from the south.”

Hanneman gives her a meaningful look, twirling the end of his mustache. “I have great faith that it will not come to that,” he answers, “but I will keep it in mind.” His eyes crinkle into a smile. “Best of luck to you, Professor.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> oooughgh,,, i was trying for bi-monthly updates but uh. january was rough,, i finished some of my zine pieces but now it's midterm time haha,,,  
also this chapter was absolutely massive and i ended up chopping it in half lmao,, hopefully the next chapter will actually come out on time,,
> 
> (i will admit that my main motivator was a flood of nice comments i got earlier this week,,,, thank u so much everyone,,, ;_;)


	16. in which she rages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dhaskdjfh this one is a long boy,,, i had most of it written out when i posted the last chapter but i kept adding stuff in between and before i knew it i had an extra 1k on my hands

“Leonie, set up traps by the cliffs,” she directs. “Rejoin when you’re done.” The girl nods as she scampers off over the rocks, her bow slung over her shoulder. “Marianne, with me. We’ll hold the bridge—provide support when you can, but keep your distance.”

A tentative agreement and they’re off, heading across the bridge and angling north. Marianne shadows her like she's afraid of what might happen if she wanders off, hands clasped together like she's reciting prayers. 

The distant clang of metal rings, sharp and clear, and they glance at each other.

“Keep going,” Byleth tells her. “Now that the battle is starting, it’s even more important to prevent the bandits from launching an additional assault from behind.”

Marianne swallows, nodding hesitantly. “...Yes, Professor.”

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” Byleth says. Out of the corner of her eye, she sees the student shift. “To any of you. I promise.”

She pauses a beat before she puts a gentle hand on the student’s shoulder, meeting her eyes for just a moment before she returns her gaze to the cliffs ahead.

“I’ll scout ahead,” Byleth says. “Hang back and wait for Leonie, but shout if you see anything.”

The student nods, and Byleth takes off an at easy jog, scampering up a ledge for a better view. She scans the grounds, the wide, jagged expanse of stone, and—there. A flicker of movement—a squadron of bandits, a dozen strong, picking their way across the cliffs towards the bridge.

She’ll take the lead, then, let Leonie fire at them from the back and rely on Marianne to keep her standing—

There’s a shout that echoes through the canyon, too deep and hoarse to be anyone they know, but Byleth pauses to check back.

Marrianne flinches, glancing across the field, hands clasped over her heart—and behind her is a bandit.

_How when no _flashes through her mind like disjointed lightning. “Marianne—!” Byleth shouts, and the student blinks at her, eyes wide, and—

The axe buries itself in her shoulder with a sickening crunch and she screams, falling to her knees and clutching her arm as she crumples like a puppet.

The bandit wrenches his weapon back, raising it up to deal the final blow—

Byleth chokes out, “No—!” but _she’s too slow_, and the bandit brings down his axe—

She lifts her hand, reaches out, and her fingers catch on something and she _pulls_—

Time freezes.

‘_Oh, dear_,’ Sothis says.

The world is black, silhouettes shimmering in an inky void, and, beneath the towering bandit, Marianne’s body looks so, so small.

Back, Byleth thinks, she needs to go back, she absolutely will _not_ let her student die.

She gasps, nearly dropping to the ground as the world rushes back into place, and—

Marianne glances across the field, hands clasped over her heart, and behind her is a bandit.

Byleth grabs the knife at her hip, flings it wide—not to wound, but to distract, the glint of steel just enough to make the bandit pause—then lunges, dashing across the stone to grab a fistful of Marianne’s jacket and practically throwing the girl aside, and the man brings down his axe.

Her pauldron crumples under the blow, blade biting into the skin beneath, cracking bone, but the pain is _nothing_.

She twists back and lashes out, sword flying in a graceful arc, and the steel cuts a perfect line across the bandit’s throat. Blood splatters across her cheek, hot and pungent.

Marianne’s startled cry is lost in the thundering of her pulse, she hauls the student to her feet with her good arm.

“You’re safe?” she asks, and the student manages a weak nod. Byleth breathes out a sigh of relief. “Good,” she manages. “...Good.”

“P-Professor—?” Marianne says, eyes fixed the stream of red dropping down her arm, but Byleth grabs her shoulder.

“Go,” she orders, sharp. “Hanneman and the others—get Leonie and meet them. Tell them that bandits might come from the south bridge.”

“Your shoulder—” the girl starts, eyes wide. “I can—”

The clatter of the fighting around them echoes in her ears—the group of approaching bandits. “Not enough time,” she bites out. Byleth shoves her forward. “_Go_.”

Marianne stumbles, glancing back, but Byleth's gaze doesn’t falter.

She runs. Byleth lets her eyes linger on her retreating back for just a moment longer before she turns back, strides to face the bandits.

The squadron stops in front of her, visibly surprised by the meager opposition. They take in her bloodied shoulder, the dead body of their kind just behind her.

“Just the one?” a brigand sneers.

“Hold on,” another says. “Look at her eyes—and the coat. Ain’t that the Ashen Demon?”

“Demon or not, she’s one woman,” a third barks. “She’s half-dead already—just finish her off.”

Her pulse roars in her ears; her chest is cold. Blood drips burning hot down her arm, slicking her palm and drenching the hilt of her sword in crimson.

She remembers, distantly, her father teaching to never fall into rage in a battle—anger burns hot and careless, anger makes you sloppy and impulsive.

But Byleth’s anger is cold and dull, like a frozen, dead thing, and she sinks deeper into the haze like she’s being buried in a blizzard.

One of the bandits takes a step.

She lunges, blade flashing out like a live viper. She’s _fast_, faster than any of them, and her sword buries itself in his neck before any of the others react, and when she wrenches the blade out her shoulder screams in protest.

Her arm is weak, she notes coldly, clinically. The blow should have taken the bandit’s head clean off.

She switches her weapon to her off hand just a bandit howls and lurches forward.

She ducks under the swipe, all lethal grace, and thrusts the point of her sword into the unarmored line if his throat, sidesteps the enraged, clumsy blow of his companion and whirls around to slash out his eyes.

Her sword is little more than a silver gleam in the air before it finds its next target. She skids across the blood-slick stone, weaving between bandits like she’s something intangible.

A good battle is like a dance, she had told her students, wide-eyed and eager for knowledge. Grace, anticipation, focus—whether they lead or follow, attack or defend, the flow of the environment is the guiding force.

This is not a dance. It is a _slaughter_, and there is no music to temper her ferocity.

The bandits fall one by one—some drop like stones, limbs giving way under dead weight; some pitch forward and skid across the rock, carried by their own momentum. Their bodies are a hindrance to her feet, as is the screaming in her head.

‘_Stop_!’ Sothis is begging, desperate, distant. ‘_This is no longer even foolishness, retreat before—!_’ and her voice is lost to the roar of blood, the crash of steel, the taste of copper.

_She’s painting the canyon red again_, something in her sings giddily, not Sothis or herself or any voice she’s heard before.

There are only a few men left—most are dead or fleeing. She can clean up the rest easily, hunt down the stragglers herding rats through maze.

She whirls around to block a descending axe, bracing her hand against the flat of her blade, and her shoulder burns. The brigand snarls, bearing down harder, and her arm threatens to buckle, blood scorching white-hot brands down her skin.

There’s a screech of crashing metal, her blade groaning under the weight of the axe, and—

Her sword breaks, steel snapping from the hilt. Only her reflexes get her out from under the axe before she’s crushed, sliding out in a serpentine rush.

The bandit bears his teeth. “What now, Demon?” he spits.

_What to do, what to do_, lilts in her mind like a jagged, manic song, splitting her head and bubbling into her throat, and—

She lifts her arm, light crackling across her skin, and the world goes white.

* * *

She remembers stumbling, exhausted, Dimitri catching her arm.

“Teach!” Claude calls, dismounting from his wyvern, the soft golds of his clothes stark against the backdrop of the ocean.

She waves them both off. Derdriu was a hard battle, but her wounds are hardly the worst. “How are the others?” she asks.

“Fine,” Claude says, a smile forming easily on his mouth. “They’re all fine. Celebrating, actually.”

She can imagine—it’s quite the reunion for the Blue Lions and the remnants of the Golden Deer—the few that didn’t join Byleth’s class all those years ago, that is.

All of them are accounted for—Raphael, who retreated with Claude at Gronder; Hilda, still splattered with the blood of Imperial soldiers; Ignatz, Lorenz, Leonie, and Lysithea are scattered among the ranks of the army. All of them except—

“Is Marianne with you?” she asks, straightening, and Claude’s smile freezes. She blinks. “...Claude?”

Beside her, Dimitri stiffens.

“I… haven’t seen her since Garegg Mach,” Claude says slowly. “Neither has Margrave Edmund. I thought she joined up with you, maybe fled to Faerghus after the monastery fell.”

She remembers her blood running cold, dread yawning in her stomach.

“Teach,” Claude says, recognition flickering in his eyes—

* * *

She wakes up to the thick smell of herbs, swaddled in the warmth of layers of blankets.

It's a struggle to open her eyes, tempted back to sleep by the haze in her head.

Jeralt is at her bedside, sitting in a chair that seems too small, arms crossed and head drooping down in sleep.

“...Father,” she rasps, hoarse and scratchy.

He startles awake at the sound of her voice, a hand reaching for her before his eyes have even fully opened.

“Byleth,” he breathes, holding her hand tightly in his own. “Goddess above—Byleth.”

“...Water?” she says.

Jeralt pours a glass from the pitcher set the bedside table, and she registers that she’s not in her dorm, but the infirmary, light streaming in from the windows. He helps her sit upright, and she winces as the blankets fall away, revealing the plain shift and swathes of bandages across her shoulders.

“How do you feel?” he asks once she’s taken a few sips. “And if you say ‘fine’ again, I’ll knock you right back out.”

She huffs a laugh, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Terrible,” she admits, then belatedly notices the bandages wrapping her arms from palm to elbow. She pauses, staring at them.

“Magic burns,” Jeralt supplies, noticing her interest. “From overusing Aura.” His mouth is set in a stiff line. “You’ve never used magic before.”

“It was… spur of the moment,” she replies vaguely, which isn’t a lie, and avoids her father’s gaze by finishing her water and setting the cup aside.

She rolls her shoulder experimentally and flinches, pain lancing through her arm.

“That blow you took nearly shattered your bones,” her father says. “You’re lucky Manuela is as good as she is.”

“And the students?” she asks. “Marianne—?”

“The brats are fine,” he says. “_Goddess’ sake_, Byleth, you were the worst off out of all of them—” He exhales sharply, bringing a hand up to massage his temples.

“...I’m sorry,” she says. “For worrying you.”

“You better be,” he grouses. “I’m getting too old for this. My heart can’t take it.” His fingers drum an absentminded beat in the arm of his chair, eyes focused on the stark white of her bandages.

“You know what they told me?” he says suddenly. “They told me they found you, unconscious in a pool of your own blood, surrounded by countless bodies—more than the rest of them had killed combined.”

“I…” she starts, unsure of what he wants her to say. “I don’t remember much of it.”

The corners of his mouth tighten and he leans forward, brushing her hair away from her eyes with a warm, calloused hand.

“Idiot,” he murmurs, sounding terribly tired.

He leans back with a sigh. “Oi, eavesdroppers,” he calls. “Come on in already.”

There’s a clatter just outside followed by a dismayed squeak, and the door swings open to reveal a cluster of sheepish students.

She blinks. There are… more of them than she expected. Marianne would have been a give—but the rest of the Golden Deer less so.

Jeralt arches a brow. “Aren’t you popular,” he grumbles.

“Teach—you’re awake,” Claude blurts, eyes wide.

“Obviously,” Lorenz says, but his voice lacks spite, flooded with relief. Leonie elbows him in the ribs regardless.

Marianne is crying, leaning on Hilda’s shoulder, tears dripping down her cheeks as she stumbles over sobs. “I’m—I’m sorry Professor, it was all my fault—“

“Stop it!” Lysithea hisses, but her bottom lip quivers like she’s restraining tears of her own.

Raphael sniffles loudly, and Ignatz delicately adjusts his glasses to dab at his eyes.

_Oh_, Byleth thinks. Oh _no_.

She sends a pleading glance to her father, who arches a brow and shrugs.

‘You brought this upon yourself,’ he mouths, looking thoroughly unimpressed.

She makes a face at him before she turns back to the students. “Marianne,” she calls, beckoning the girl towards her.

Marianne flinches. Slowly, she shuffles forward, eyes on the floor.

Byleth eases herself up a little more and puts a gentle hand on the crown of sky-blue hair. “I’m glad you’re safe,” she says softly. “All of you.”

Marianne’s eyes go wide, welling with fresh tears, and she hiccups with sobs. “Professor!” she wails.

Byleth lets out a soft _oof_ as the student wraps her arms around her, and, like a bursting dam, the rest of the Golden Deer follow suit, piling onto the bed, bawling and sniffling.

“For heaven’s sake,” Jeralt says.

“We were really worried, you know,” Hilda says. “There was—there was so much _blood_ when we found you—”

“You didn’t move at all when I carried you back!” Raphael blubbers, watery and teary-eyed.

“There, there,” Byleth says placatingly. “I’m fine—we all are.” She strokes Marianne’s hair soothingly, setting a comforting hand on Lysithea’s trembling back.

They're so young, she marvels. They've seen so much less than her, so much less blood and so many fewer battlefields. _She's_ so young, hardly any older than these students, but their lives are in her hands regardless. She won't let them down—she refuses to.

She turns to meet Claude’s eyes, who’s sitting on the edge of the bed, mouth twisted in a wry smile. “You really are something, aren’t you?” he says, so softly that she’s not sure it was meant to be heard.

“What in the world is happening here?” a voice interrupts, and Byleth glances up see Manuela in the doorway. “Out, out! No more stress for my patient, if you will,” she says, shooing them away. The students reluctantly detach themselves from Byleth's immediate person and file out of the infirmary, rubbing their eyes and calling promises to visit again.

Byleth lets out a quiet laugh at Raphael’s exuberant waving before she turns her attention to Manuela.

“Professor, I’m glad to see you’re awake,” the doctor says, smiling kindly. “How do you feel?”

“Not very good,” Byleth says honestly, and Jeralt snorts.

“That’s to be expected, given your condition,” Manuela comments, tilting up Byleth's chin with a finger. "You're alert, which is good."

The doctor fusses with her bandages, hands lit with the warm light of healing magic. A faint tingle spreads across her skin, dulling the deep ache in her shoulder.

“Bones are back in place, at least,” Manuela notes. “Still a little low on blood—you’ll be restricted to bed rest for at least a week.”

“A week?” Byleth echoes incredulously. “It didn’t seem too bad. I was conscious for most of it.”

Manuela arches a brow. “Magical exhaustion, blood loss, shattered bones, muscle tearing,” she lists. “I could continue, if you’d like.”

Byleth blinks. “Ah.”

The physician wraps up the diagnostic, checking the bandages before rewrapping them firmly and producing a vulnerary from the depths of her robes. “Drink the whole thing, then I’ll have someone bring you something to eat,” Manuela says. “Absolutely no training—if I see you out of that bed, I’ll add another week.”

“If I see you out, I’ll ground you for the rest of your life,” her father grumbles, and Byleth huffs. “Thank you, Manuela,” he continues. “Sorry for the trouble my brat of a child is causing.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble at all,” she twitters. “I’ll leave you to rest for now.” She leaves with a shallow curtsy, closing the door behind her.

Her father sets a heavy hand on top of her head, looking her dead in the eye. “If you ever pull a stunt as reckless as that again,” he says. “you’ll be running laps until you’re grayer than I am.”

Byleth meets his gaze steadily. “I don’t regret it,” she says.

He rolls his eyes. “I bet you don’t—”

“I don’t regret it,” she says, “because it was nothing less than what you would do for me.”

He freezes.

When he looks at her again, there’s a flicker of something in his eyes. “They really mean that much to you, huh?”

She ducks her head. “Maybe… not that much,” she mutters. “But… I care for them. I couldn’t stand idly by while they got—hurt. Killed.”

Jeralt lets out a long exhale. “Right,” he says. “Well, maybe stop every once in awhile to think about how _I_ don’t want you to get hurt either, alright?”

She smiles a little. “Okay.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dskdjf i really wanted to get this out before the end of february bc i have like. 15 pages worth of essays due next week,, pray for me


	17. in which she recovers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hm. what a month, huh.  
thank you everyone for the well wishes and the concerns! i'm lucky enough to be in a stable situation rn, but it's still been a wild few weeks. heres an extra long chapter with a bit of everyone in it, plus the setup for sewer kids

The vulnerary is bitter. Byleth wipes her mouth with the back of her hand and grimaces, chasing down the pungent herbal taste with water.

Jeralt watches with a critical eye, taking the bottle from her and shaking it to ensure that it’s empty.

“I’m not a child,” she deadpans.

“Doesn’t make these things any less gross,” he replies. Apparently, he finds it adequately drained and sets it aside.

She snorts, shifting and rearranging the pillows behind her back so she can sit more comfortably. The vulnerary works quickly, at least, the throbbing pain in her shoulder lessening to a dull ache, tingles arcing down to her fingertips.

There’s a clatter at the door, and she straightens again on instinct.

Edelgard flushes, holding a platter of food, Hubert looming behind her like a gangly shadow. “Professor—I’m glad to see you’re awake. Manuela asked me to bring something for you to eat.”

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Hubert greets drolly.

Byleth blinks. “Ah— hello. Thank you, Edelgard.”

Edelgard nods, approaching her bedside to set the tray on the table. It’s piled high with hearty meats and vegetables, and the savory smell is enough to make Byleth’s stomach rumble.

She hesitates only a beat before she reaches for the food, biting the inside of her cheek as pain lances through her collar. Maybe the vulnerary doesn’t work that well.

“Are you alright, Professor?” Edelgard asks, the same time Jeralt says, “Slow down, kid.”

“It’s nothing,” she says, setting the plate in her lap. She brings her other hand up to tentatively massage her shoulder. “Just a little… unfortunate that it’s my main hand.”

“You don’t need help eating, do you?” Edelgard asks, an odd note to her voice, and Jeralt looks away from Byleth for the first time. His eyebrows are rapidly intruding on his hairline.

Hubert looks like he’s just been slapped, for some reason.

Byleth waves them off, giving her shoulder an experimental roll. It twinges, but not as bad as before. “It’s fine. I can feed myself.”

“O-of course.”

Byleth blinks at the stutter, but shrugs (and regrets it immediately) and takes a heaping forkful of roasted meat, humming happily.

Jeralt snorts. “Always were happiest when you’re eating,” he comments fondly, and she wrinkles her nose.

“I’m hungry,” she says, half-defensively, and her father huffs.

“You’ve been unconscious for two days. You’re lucky we didn’t force-feed you.”

An awkward shuffle redirects their attention to the two students, and Edelgard clears her throat.

“I just wanted to wish you a quick recovery,” she manages. “I look forward to attending your lectures once your health improves.”

“May your recovery be quick and painless,” Hubert says dryly, which is needlessly ominous.

Jeralt turns to her, his back to the students, and makes a face, and Byleth valiantly restrains a puff of laughter. “Thank you again for the food, Edelgard.”

“Of course, Professor,” the princess says bowing shallowly, and Hubert mirrors her— albeit reluctantly. “We’ll take our leave.”

Her father watches them until the door clicks shut behind them.

“The tall one gives me the creeps,” he grumbles. “If you get food poisoning, we’ll know the cause.”

Byleth is too busy polishing off her plate to retort, her hunger rearing its head as soon as she remembers that it exists.

Jeralt pours her another glass of water as she finishes off her food, then leans back and takes a quick swig from the flask at his hip— she eyes it enviously.

“Would you get the canteen from my pack?” She makes her eyes as wide and round as she can. “Please?”

Jeralt eyes her. “You know you shouldn’t get drunk while you’re recovering,” he says, like he doesn’t ask her to do the same whenever he ends up on bedrest.

She holds her gaze. It’s only a matter of time before her father cracks.

Like clockwork, her father groans and slumps. “Fine, fine,” he relents. “Enough with the eyes already.”

He stands slowly, collecting her plate and reaching to ruffle her hair, gentler than he normally would. “Stay out of trouble, brat,” he says, only half-joking. “I’ll be back soon.”

“Take your time,” she replies, reclining back into her pillows. “I’m not going anywhere.”

* * *

It’s only once her father leaves that she notices what’s been bothering her.

Sothis has been completely silent.

She’s awake, present—Byleth can still feel the girl in the corner of her mind, curled up like she’s trying to make herself as small as possible.

“...Sothis?” she tries cautiously. “Are you alright?”

Several long moments pass. ‘_You scared me_.’

Byleth thinks of her last lucid moments, hair dripping with blood, skin splattered with scarlet, her world narrowed down to rage and _red_.

She must have been monstrous.

“...I’m sorry,” she murmurs, and the lash of anger that Sothis directs at her nearly makes her flinch.

‘_Not because of that, stupid mortal!_’ the girl spits, even if the tremor of her voice says otherwise. ‘_You would not_ stop! _You would have_ died!’ She’s shaking, for once looking every inch the age that she presents herself. ‘_Where would that have left me? Would I vanish? Worse, would I persist, alone_?’

Scared. Not of, _for_.

Oh.

“...Do you still want me to apologize?”

‘_Your apologies mean nothing when we both know that you’ll dive headfirst into the first sign of danger_,’ Sothis scoffs, drawing a crooked smile from Byleth.

“You sound like my father.”

‘_I wouldn’t if you weren’t so much of a _child.’

A knock at the door interrupts her next thought, and she calls, “Come in.”

Mercedes pokes her head in. “Are you well, Professor?” There’s a faint clatter— she’s holding a tray with a teapot and a set of cups.

“Mercedes— come in,” Byleth says. A second head peeks in, along with a plate of baked goods. “And Dedue—”

The door widens. There is a whole class of students behind them.

“Good afternoon, Professor,” Dimitri says sheepishly.

Her eyebrows rise. “Well,” she says.

“We brought food,” Mercedes says, the picture of benevolence. “Edelgard mentioned you were awake.”

The tea is fragrant—not quite as sweet smelling as the first time she’d had it with Mercedes, likely thanks to the plate of pastries that accompanies it.

Sylvain catches her eyeing the food and grins. “Don’t let Ingrid steal any of them from you,” he says. “We went through enough trouble as it is to sneak them out of the dining hall with Seteth breathing down our backs.”

“You make it sound like some grand heist,” Dimitri says, amused. “We just all stood around Dedue to block the view and walked away.”

“Thank you for your efforts,” Byleth says, a smile tilting her mouth, “although I don’t know how good a company I’ll make in this state.”

“Nonsense,” Mercedes says, pouring a cup of tea and offering it to her—Byleth accepts it gratefully and takes a tentative sip. “We’re just happy to see you up again—we heard about what happened.”

“I heard you killed eleven bandits,” Felix says, an eager glint in his eyes. “How was it—” and Ingrid elbows him in the side.

“Show some courtesy,” she hisses.

“Why don’t you tell us a little about yourself?” Annette chirps, diverting her attention. “Since you’re cooped up here— you must be getting lonely all by yourself.”

Sothis snorts.

“About myself,” Byleth echoes. “Like what?”

“Maybe… likes and dislikes?” Ashe offers. “Just to get to know you a bit better.”

She blinks, glancing down at her teacup. “I like…” she starts slowly, “being relied on. When people think I’m someone they can trust. Taking care of the people close to me.” When she looks up, the Blue Lions are staring at her with varying degrees of surprise, and she restrains a wince. Perhaps they were looking for something a little more lighthearted.

“And also swords,” she adds, like an afterthought, and Sylvain heaves an exaggerated sigh as Felix snaps to attention.

“Steel or silver?” he asks severely, and Dimitri and Ingrid lean in like she’s about to reveal the secrets of the universe.

Sylvain throws his hands up. “Now you’ve done it.”

“Silver, but only if it’s been reinforced,” Byleth replies. “It has a better weight.”

Ingrid smacks Felix’s shoulder. “I told you. Not everyone wants to lug around a slab of steel.”

“_Reinforced_ silver,” he bites back. “Means it’s too flimsy otherwise.”

“You were both right?” Ashe tries, fruitlessly, and Mercedes gives him a reassuring pat for his troubles.

Byleth can’t help but think she’s started something that cannot possibly be resolved in a peaceful manner. She takes a scone.

“Fine,” Ingrid says, crossing her arms. “Professor, what do you use most often?”

“Iron swords,” she answers immediately, and is met with a scowl.

“You just said—” Felix starts.

“Lightweight, easier to maintain, cheaper to replace,” she lists off. “I’m a mercenary, not a noble. We don’t have infinite resources.” She looks at them meaningfully. “I have preferences, but what is important is I can make do with whatever I have available. In real strife, no matter the wealth of your house, you’ll have to ration your supplies.”

Dimitri chuckles. “It seems that the professor still has lessons to teach, even bedridden.”

“Oh! Lessons!” Mercedes gasps. “We have a lesson with Professor Jeritza soon.”

Sylvain groans. “Days like this make me wish I transferred to Manuela’s class when I had the chance,” he says wistfully.

“Idiot,” Felix grates, shoving his way past his classmates to get to the door. “Hurry up and recover, Professor. You promised me a spar.”

Byleth’s mouth twists in a wry smile. Of course even his well-wishes would be prickly. “Off you go,” she tells the others. “Don’t keep Jeritza waiting.”

A wave of shudders passes through them.

“Right,” Annette squeaks. “Definitely don’t wanna— make him angry or anything like that.”

They scramble to go, Mercedes whisking away the trays but leaving the tea.

“Dedue?” Dimitri calls, pausing at the door. “Are you coming?"

She blinks—the taller man is lingering behind, eyes fixed on her.

“I’d like to talk to the professor for a moment,” Dedue says carefully. “I will meet you in class.”

“Of course,” Dimitri says. “Please, take all the time you need. Best to you, Professor— I hope to see you again soon.”

He bows at the waist and turns— Dedue watches him leave.

When the chatter of the students fades away, Byleth turns her curious gaze to him. “What did you want to speak to me about?”

She watches the broad line of mouth, the faint shadows beneath his eyes. “That night,” he begins, almost hesitant, “when you… could not sleep. When I went to you, your eyes were not unlike my own.” He runs a thumb over the edge of his sleeve. “They were also not unlike Prince Dimitri’s.”

Her mouth tightens. How can she explain the memories bleeding over, sleepless nights and raw fear that isn’t even truly hers? Can she really compare her secondhand terrors to theirs?

Sothis is silent.

Dedue notices her hesitation. “I apologize,” he says. “I have overstepped.”

She shakes her head. “No—no, it’s just… difficult to express what happened.”

“It often is,” he says quietly.

She stares at her bandaged hands, imagines the lines of scars and the mottled ridges of burns. “Can I ask… how you coped?” she asks. “In the aftermath?”

His gaze is solemn and steady. “There was a gaping hole in my soul,” he says. “I was without faith. I was content to die where I stood.”

“‘Was,’” she echoes. “What made you change your mind?”

“Purpose.” The answer is immediate, unwavering. He’s contemplated this before.

She mulls over the word. “...Dimitri.”

Dedue smiles, the faintest curve of his mouth. “Yes. For a time, I devoted myself fully to him—his highness was my sole reason for existing.”

Again.  _ Was _ . She tilts her head, her question wordless.

“I have found,” he says, slow, thoughtful, “that there is beauty in little things. I take pleasure in gardening. Cooking reminds me of my home. My classmates are kind.” He pauses. “His highness is still my greatest purpose, but I have found solace in others.”

“I see,” Byleth murmurs. She flexes her hands, the rasp of gauze against her skin sending dull twinges up her arms. She looks up. “Thank you, Dedue.”

His eyes are warm, and he dips his head. “My pleasure, Professor,” he says softly. He stands, gathering their cups.

He leaves, but the room retains his warmth for a while after, comforting, and her eyes drift shut.

* * *

A quiet knock rouses her from a hazy nap. She blinks away the image of a blazing field, the clash of metal ringing hollowly in her ears. She’s learning to tolerate the dreams, at least, compartmentalizing them and shoving them into the recesses of her mind to unpack later— or hopefully forget them entirely.

The knock comes again, and she shakes off her drowsiness, calling them in absentmindedly.

She cocks her head. “Claude,” she greets, tentative. He’s alone, which is surprising, and… not smiling. Not frowning, either, but thoughtful. A little distant.

It’s refreshing to see him without that manufactured smile.

“Hey, Teach,” he says, carefully shutting the door behind him. “I brought something of yours. Hope I’m not bothering you.”

“Not at all. You’re always welcome.”

He pauses at that, something indecipherable flitting over his features before his mouth curls into a wan smile. “Won you over with my charm already, huh?”

“Not nearly.” Byleth gestures towards the chair at her bedside. “Please, sit.”

“No Captain Jeralt today,” he muses, settling down.

“He has work,” she replies, “and, presumably, you do as well.”

The student laughs. “I’m sure they’re not missing me too much.”

He reaches into his coat before she can fire off a retort. “Here. This is yours, isn’t it?”

Her eyes widen. He’s delicately holding her dagger by the blade, offering her the hilt.

She takes it wordlessly, rubbing her thumb against the golden crossguard. It’s been carefully polished, cleaned of dust and scuffs.

Claude clears his throat. “I found it when we went back for you. You threw it, right?”

“...I did,” she says quietly. “Thank you, Claude.”

He chuckles. “Anything for my favorite professor,” he says. Then, leaning in conspiratorially, “Don’t tell Hanneman that—wouldn’t want him to feel put out.”

“I’ll tell him you’ve been skipping classes if you keep this up,” she ripostes, setting her dagger aside.

He holds his hands up in mock-surrender, grinning easily, but his eyes follow the glint of metal. “It looks important,” he says. “The dagger, I mean. Was it a gift?”

“From my father,” she says, “after my first job.” Her memories are hazy— her younger years all are—but this one, at least, rings clear. “It was the first weapon I picked for myself.”

“Fancier than I expected from you,” Claude comments.

“I was young, then,” she huffs.

“Could argue that you still are,” he ripostes. “You’re, what, two? Three years older than I am? Certainly not enough for you to be pulling the age card on me.”

‘I don’t know,’ is on the tip of her tongue, the first syllable out of her mouth before she realizes that’s too odd a thing to say. Her birthdays are a blur—dates matter little on the road, and it’s not like any other of her father’s mercenaries or the man himself made a deal of their own.

But still. ‘I don’t know,’ doesn’t seem like a sufficient answer anymore, and especially not to Claude.

“I’m twenty,” she says instead.

“A little more than two, then,” he says. “Can’t believe you’re treating us like kids— aren’t there students that are older than you here?” His voice is light, almost playful, but—

He’s fishing again, she thinks. For answers to what, she hasn’t the faintest— maybe to satisfy his own, innocuous curiosity. Maybe he still doesn’t trust her.

She shrugs with one shoulder. “The archbishop thought I was suitable.”

Claude laughs. “I’ve seen that you’re plenty capable,” he says. “Must’ve lived your whole life on a battlefield to get the experience you have.”

“I did, pretty much,” she replies. “My father raised me himself. The mercenaries were my family.”

His smile falls a little. “Oh,” he says. “Your mother…?”

“She passed when I was born,” Byleth says. She catches the twist of mouth, the furrow of his brow. “It’s fine—it’s hard to miss something I never had, I think. My father took it much harder.”

“I see,” he says. Regret is still written on the slope of his shoulders.

She doesn’t know much about Claude, she realizes. His mother is from the Riegan line, his father unknown. He carries himself differently compared to other nobles, a veil of charm over caution that wouldn’t be out of place on a hunted deer.

And he had called _her_ intriguing.

She allows herself a tiny smile. “Shoo,” she says. “Back to your classes—you’ve gotten enough of my mysterious past out of me today. Hanneman will be the least of your worries.”

It’s enough that she startles a laugh out of him, and he rises, stretching dramatically. “I’ll get the rest out of you yet.”

* * *

“It’s _empty_,” Byleth says petulantly. She shakes her canteen—it rattles hollowly, not a drop of whiskey to be found. She had left it at _least_ three-quarters full.

Jeralt shrugs. “You said to bring your canteen. Consider it brought.”

She eyes him balefully. “You drank it all before you got here. How are you not drunk?”

“Oh, don’t worry. It’ll kick in soon enough,” he says. “Hopefully when Rhea’s little advisor friend isn’t breathing down my neck.”

“You’d deserve it. I hope he scolds you.”

* * *

Getting back into her normal clothing is a relief, even if her bandages peek out of her shirt like a drastically unfashionable reminder of her injuries. Sliding her dagger back into its sheath is just as satisfying, the weight of it familiar and comforting at her hip.

Changing still hurts, but regular doses of vulneraries and skillful applications of white magic means that she’s well on her way to a full recovery, regardless of the residual aches and pains.

Three days had come and gone—punctuated by visits from all the students— and Manuela released her from the infirmary. She’s still technically on bedrest, so she’s not allowed to teach, spar, or anything that might risk reopening her wounds.

More distressingly, since her father unceremoniously downed all of her whiskey, she no longer has a source of alcohol— she intends to remedy that.

‘_Really?_’ Sothis says. ‘_You’re without things to do, so you immediately turn to drinking?_’

“Relax,” Byleth mutters back. “I’m not my father.” She’s always been better about handling alcohol than Jeralt—her father’s trail of unpaid bar tabs is proof of that.

‘_Your father is hardly a respectable comparison_.’

Byleth ignores her as she strolls to gates, waving to the gatekeeper as she passes.

The merchants are just beginning to set up their stalls in the marketplace—she catches a glimpse of the general trader and makes her way over.

“Morning, Professor!” the merchant says cheerfully. “Looking for anything in particular?”

“Morning,” Byleth replies. “Whiskey. Or scotch, maybe.”

The merchant winces. “Don’t think you’ll find any like that around here. The rules are a bit strict,” she says. “The only alcohol we’re allowed to bring in are specific wines— either the kind for cooking or the kind for nobles..”

“...I see,” Byleth says, despondent. It’s to be expected, she supposes, in a monastery that doubles as a nobility’s academy, and she’s not about to sneak into the larders at night for some hundred year old wine like some desperate teenager. “So nobody sells alcohol on the grounds?”

The merchant hesitates, giving Byleth a thoughtful once-over. “Well,” she says, carefully. “Have you heard of the Abyss?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> jeralt: “litle advisor friend”  
byleth: you are 3cm taller  
jeralt: you got that right
> 
> —
> 
> claude: -just starting to warm up to byleth, still a little cautious-  
edelgard and dimitri: professor are you aware that i would die for you at any given moment


	18. in which she drinks

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -posts this at midnight- this is fine. time is meaningless

He sits in front of the grave, a chisel and hammer at his side, a stick of charcoal in hand.

“Sorry for being away for so long, Sitri,” Jeralt murmurs. Slowly, deliberately, he traces the letters of her name across the worn stone. “Our little girl’s growing up, you know. She looks like you when she smiles.”

He tucks the charcoal into his pocket, heedless of the streaks of black it leaves on the fabric, grabs the hammer and chisel and sets the point against the dusty black lines. “In just a few months she’ll be older than you were. It’s a little hard, celebrating on the day you died.”

He strikes the back of the chisel, chipping away, little by little, carving out her name. “She’s got more guts than both of us combined, I think. Reckless like we never were— I feel like I’m getting gray hairs, looking after her alone. Coming back here changed everything, though.”

Clack. Clack. Clack. “Rhea. The church. Everything. I don’t know what to do.” He pauses, hands falling into his lap. A slow breath escapes his chest, and he leans back, staring at the sky. “I miss you. I have a feeling it’s going to be a long time until we see each other again.”

The sun is warm, and he closes his eyes. “What’s going on with the world, I wonder?”

* * *

Every institution has a seedy underbelly, she supposes, although Garreg Mach seems to take it a little too literally.

It’s damn near a civilization down here, all sprawling tunnels and darkened rooms. The gate guard had dryly told her not to get lost, but apparently he had only been half joking.

Even so, underground Abyss or not, some things are constant.

She follows the familiar bustle that couldn’t be anything but a crowd of drunkards, carefully picking her way through the halls. The people that pass by spare her a second glance, but largely ignore her when they decide she’s not making trouble.

The noise leads her to a small offshoot from the hall— quaintly named _The Wilting Rose Inn_, and she bee-lines to the bar, where there’s already a couple people drinking despite the early hour, with more scattered around the tables.

“Whiskey, please,” she says, setting a small pouch of coins on the counter. The bartender immediately slides her a glass, filled to the top. It smells cheap and a little like piss, but she didn’t come to a place called the Abyss for class.

The man next to her bares his teeth in a crooked grin. “Big fight lately, huh?” he starts conversationally, eyeing the bandages exposed by the cutout over her chest. (Maybe not the bandages. But she’ll give him the benefit of the doubt for now.) “Do I wanna see what the other guy looks like?”

The promise of alcohol loosens her up, and alongside the familiar ambiance of a tavern, she’s just relaxed enough to banter with this stranger.

“You could go look for them,” she replies, taking a delicate sip of her whiskey. “Should be easy enough to find, considering they haven’t moved since.”

The man lets out a bark of laughter, tipping his mug at her before taking a gulp of his own.

“B—there you are.” A woman with a shock of wild red hair pokes Byleth’s new companion in the shoulder. “Yuri-bird’s been looking for you. Coco’s mad about the mess you made.”

‘B’ tries to wave her off. “Not now, Hapi,” he hisses. “I’m trying to score here.”

Hapi blinks slowly, turning her apathetic gaze to Byleth. “Her? You’re trying too hard.”

Byleth muffles a snort into her drink, and B winces, aiming a half-hearted kick at Hapi’s shins.

The other woman shrugs and sidesteps the attack.

“If it makes you feel any better,” Byleth offers, “you weren’t going to ‘score’ either way.”

“Yeowch! Don’t mince words, do you?”

She shrugs, setting her empty glass down and waving to the bartender for another. “Might as well lay it out now.”

He sighs and rubs the back of his neck sheepishly. “It’s always the blunt ones, huh,” he muses, hopping off his stool. “Fine, fine. I’ll go talk to Constance. If you’re ever hurtin’ for company—” he grins, winking at Byleth— “call for Balthus, yeah?”

His coat flares dramatically as he leaves, Hapi staring at his retreating back before she turns back to Byleth.

“You’re new here,” she notes idly, like she doesn’t particularly care either way, sliding into the seat that Balthus used to occupy. “If it makes you feel better, B’s just interested in you ‘cause you’re new.”

‘_Why would that make you feel better?_’ Sothis questions.

Byleth shrugs and takes a sip from her refilled cup, responding to both. “Not the first time I’ve been approached.”

“Really? Wouldn’t think that looking at you.”

Even though the words are cutting, the woman speaks apathetically. Byleth isn’t sure whether she should be more or less offended by that.

“People aren’t usually looking for much if they’re in a bar,” she replies, startling a snort from Hapi.

“Where are you from, then?” she asks, still sounding like she’s not terribly interested. “If you’re so familiar with bars.”

“I’m a professor,” Byleth replies, “at the monastery.”

“Oh,” Hapi says, somehow sounding even less enthusiastic than before. “You work for the church, then.”

Byleth cocks her head. “What’s wrong with that?”

“‘What’s wrong with that,’” Hapi echoes dully, sighing— then winces.

“Hapi!” the bartender says, scandalized, and she claps her hands together with a grimace.

“Sor—ry.”

Byleth blinks. “What—?”

A rumble shakes the room, and the bartender points at the door.

Hapi restrains another sigh with what appears to be a truly herculean effort. “Yeah, yeah,” she says, sliding off her seat and making her way out.

The bartender turns his finger to Byleth. “You too,” he says. “You cause it, you fix it.”

“Fix what?” she says, bewildered.

A rattling shriek sounds from the distance.

He doesn’t seem much more forthcoming with details, and she sighs wistfully, knocking back the rest of her whiskey like a shot. It burns her throat like scalding tea, and she wipes her mouth with the back of her hand before she makes to follow Hapi.

The rest of the bar patrons and the people she passes in the hall look remarkably unfazed by the current situation, going about their business like it's a common occurrence, even as another screech echoes through the stone walls.

She spots Hapi’s bright mess of hair past the scattered crowd. The woman turns the corner, and Byleth quickens her pace to catch up, jogging as she crosses a bridge. A quick glance over edge reveals a steep plummet down to dark water, and she takes a few steps back, staying firmly in the middle of the path.

She follows Hapi’s trail, a short hallway abruptly opening up to a massive cavern— it’s an arena, brown stone and gritty sand, and in the center is a massive beast. It rears a colossal head, saliva dripping from its jaw, and screams.

Hapi is making her way across the stands, keeping high above the pit— glancing down again, Byleth spots a pair of figures keeping the beast busy.

There’s the man from earlier—Balthus—she recognizes, darting in to pummel its flank, alongside a much more slender man in a familiar gray uniform. The beast makes a swipe for the latter, who dances aside with admirable grace, before the crack of magic lights up the whole cavern.

“Ohohoho! Constance von Nuvelle has arrived!” the new arrival crows, a jet black pegasus carrying her high in the air, almost to the ceiling.

Another bolt of lightning arcs down at the monster, and even this far away Byleth can hear Balthus’ undignified squawk.

“Oi, watch it, Constance!” he shouts. “You almost fried me!”

“Move if you don’t want to get ‘almost fried’ again,” Hapi calls dryly, atop the stands, purple magic wreathing her hands.

Balthus curses and dives out of the way as she fires a lance of dark magic at the beast. It shrieks on impact, collapsing, and the uniformed man finishes it off with a sword through its skull.

Constance lands, dismounting her pegasus smoothly, and immediately launches into a tirade at a grimacing Balthus. Hapi watches, disinterested, from a distance, and the fourth—

He flicks his wrist, sending blood splattering across the floor, and turns as he sheaths his sword.

“Oh,” he says mildly. “I didn’t realize we had an audience. What brings a newcomer here?”

Byleth meets his gaze levelly. “Just taking a break.”

“A break in the Abyss? We tend to attract a particular sort of crowd, you know.” The corner of his mouth quirks up and he takes a step— she’s suddenly hyper aware of the dagger at her hip. “Of course, I’m not so crass as to forget my introductions. Yuri Leclerc— pleased to meet you.”

“...Byleth,” she says.

“The Ashen Demon?” he says. There’s an uncanny gleam to eyes, like he’s already measured the angle at which to slit her throat. “What a charming coincidence. We’re the Ashen Wolves.”

“You know me?” she asks.

He laughs. “Of course,” he replies. “We may be underground, but we don’t exactly have our heads buried in the dirt. There’s plenty of mercenaries here—it would be more unreasonable for us not to have heard of you.” He grins, showing teeth, the sharp wings of kohl highlighting the glint of his eyes. “You’re causing quite a stir on the surface, you know.”

He’s not much taller than her—she glances down—even in heels, with a slender build and a meticulous appearance. He doesn’t have a hair out of place, even after fighting a massive beast.

She thinks, idly, that she might have finally found someone who spends more time on their appearance than Lorenz.

“Well, professor or not, a newcomer is a newcomer. If you’re planning on making this a regular venture, I have to take you to Aelfric.”

“Aelfric,” she echoes. The name prickles the back of her mind.

“You could call him the ‘Guardian of the Abyss,’ if you’re inclined towards theatrics,” he says. “He’s the church’s liaison. The archbishop holds him in high esteem.”

It was her fault, a man's voice says, ringing sharply in her head. Her fault she died.

“...Fine,” she manages. Random demonic beast attacks aside, she’s not terribly willing to give up her sole source of alcohol so soon.

Sothis snorts.

“Let’s go, then,” Yuri says. He waves to his companions— Hapi acknowledges him with a nod, but the other two are too deep in their argument to notice— and leads her away. His boots click against the stone floors, clear and a little too deliberate. He’s trying to make noise, she realizes. He moves too quietly otherwise—makes it obvious that he’s a thief.

_‘All that from how he walks?’_ Sothis scoffs.

No, she thinks, eyes on his back. More than that, somehow. His gait is familiar.

‘_Oh_,’ Sothis says. ‘_So _another _one_.’

Byleth restrains a puff of laughter.

Yuri stops at an open door, rapping his knuckles against the wall. “Aelfric,” he calls.

She peeks in— it looks like a classroom, almost, complete with a chalkboard. The lone occupant turns his head. “Yuri,” he says warmly, then, “and you’ve brought an outsider?”

“A professor,” Yuri replies, stepping back. “I’ll leave you to it. There’s a bit of a mess to clean up.”

Aelfric meets her gaze, and his eyes widen slightly.

“Ah,” he says, “I know you. You’re Jeralt’s child, yes? The new professor?”

She nods, trying not to let her uncertainty seep into her posture.

“We haven’t met yet—I’m Aelfric. I knew your father, many years ago— he’s a good man. He suited your mother well.”

“You knew her?” she asks despite herself, then bites her tongue as she remembers what he had told the archbishop—that she had been born after he had left the monastery. _She_ knows the pieces didn’t quite add up, but—

Aelfric laughs softly. “I grew up with her, here in the monastery. Jeralt was heartbroken when she passed— we all were. There was no possibility that he would move on from her death so quickly. Besides,” he says, smiling fondly at her, “you are the spitting image of Sitri.”

She freezes. “I—” she tries.

She sees a woman, small, pale, eyes closed as if in sleep. Aelfric clutches her hands, a golden chalice clattering to the floor, spilling black and red, and when he turns to face her, there’s no life left in his eyes.

She feels herself say, “I’m sorry,” responding to something she can’t hear.

Byleth shakes her head. “Are we—? Is my father in trouble?”

“The archbishop and I have kept our suspicions to ourselves,” he replies. “Jeralt has his reasons, I suppose. The two of you have returned—I believe that is what matters.”

Not by choice, she muses, recalling the pale cast of her father’s face.

“Enough about that—please, you must have questions about the Abyss. What brings you down here?”

Alcohol, she thinks. “Curiosity,” she says. “There were… rumors.” Gossip, more like.

Aelfric huffs. “As secret as this place is, I suppose some things can’t be helped,” he says, faintly amused. “Lady Rhea and other higher ups in the church all know about the Abyss, but I must ask that you don’t discuss this place with others. This place is a sanctuary for many, made safe only by its confidentiality.”

“...Of course,” she says.

He exhales, tension that she hadn’t noticed before loosening. “Thank you for understanding,” he says. “I have no qualms about letting you wander, especially as the archbishop’s hand-picked professor, but my duty is to the denizens of the Abyss.”

She dips her head, and Aelfric smiles. “I shan’t keep you any longer. Please, feel free to come and go as you please. And,” he says, expression softening, “if you have questions about your mother, you can ask me anything. I’m happy to recall her—”

“Sitri,” he breathes, voice reverent, and his eyes are two decades away, even as red cords of flesh crawl up his jaw, white bone glistening beneath.

Her throat is dry. “I will,” she says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> balthus “stop yappin and start slappin” “king of huge honkers” “himbo” von albrecht


	19. in which she is (almost) scolded

Dazed, she makes the trek back above ground. The whiskey buzzes in her head, just shy of tipsy, but it’s not the alcohol distracting her.

She blinks away the sudden brightness of the sun. It’s past noon, by the look of it—later than she’d expected.

The passageway is fairly close to her dorms, so she turns the corner to make her way towards her room—

And is immediately met by her father, who looks immensely unimpressed, and three sheepish house leaders.

“...Hello,” she says.

Sothis cackles.

“I told you,” Jeralt says, cuffing her upside the head, “what would happen if I caught you out. Grounded. For _life_.”

“I’m not fighting,” she protests.

“You’re wandering off to Goddess knows where, heavily injured, and without telling anyone. You’re asking for so much trouble you might as well have been at the cathedral praying for it.”

The students are awkwardly looking at anywhere but at them, shuffling their feet and staring at the sky.

Jeralt’s brow furrows, and he leans forward, taking a whiff. “Have you been _drinking_?”

Dimitri looks shocked; Edelgard looks surprised, but not quite as stupefied as her classmate; Claude’s eyebrows inch up, and he mouths 'day drinking?’ at her.

“Not as much as you,” she mutters, rebellious, almost, batting her father’s hand away. She glances between him and the students. “My room. Give me a minute.”

Jeralt narrows his eyes, but complies. When the door to her room swings shut she turns back to the house leaders wordlessly.

“Um,” says Dimitri.

Claude holds his hands up placatingly. “We weren’t trying to get you into trouble, honest.”

Edelgard elbows him in the side. “We were having a debate during lunch, and we wanted your opinion on it. We checked your room first—“

“And the training grounds,” Dimitri adds.

“And the library,” supplies Claude.

“—and we couldn’t find you anywhere, so we asked the captain,” she finishes.

“I’m sorry, Professor, we didn’t mean to get you into trouble,” Dimitri says.

He looks so earnestly apologetic that she finds it hard to be mad at him. Claude, on the other hand, looks terribly amused.

“Right,” she says. “Next time, maybe consider I’d like some privacy every now and then. What was that argument that needed settling?”

They glance at each other. “Bows, lances, or axes?” they chorus, like their bickering had been a rehearsal.

She arches a brow. “Swords.”

Claude audibly groans and Edelgard tosses an ‘I told you so’ look at him.

Byleth huffs. “Was that all?”

“For now,” Claude concedes, shepherding his classmates away. “We’ll leave you to it, Teach. Hope your punishment isn’t too severe!”

Her unamused glare is lost to the back of his head, and she sighs, reluctantly turning back to her room.

* * *

Jeralt, as expected, is waiting for her, arms crossed menacingly. As soon as she shuts the door behind her, he opens his mouth to deliver an undoubtedly merciless scolding, but she beats him to it.

“Tell me about Mother.”

He stills, mouth snapping shut with an audible click, dredged up old hurt flashing in his eyes. “...You’ve never asked about her before.”

“You’ve never lied about her to the church before.”

Jeralt winces. “Caught that, did you?” he mutters.

She shrugs. “I met Aelfric. He told me a little about her.”

He closes his eyes, brow furrowing. “Aelfric, huh? Figures he’d still be around. I remember him. Good kid.”

Jeralt crosses the distance between them in a single step—for a moment she thinks he might dance around her and leave entirely. Her father isn’t the sort to run, but she’s never been so direct.

Instead, he lays his palm just below her collarbone, staring blankly at the hollow of her throat. “I’m sorry,” he says, quiet.

Slowly, she presses a hand to his chest, feeling the slow rise and fall of his breathing, and below that, the steady rhythm of his heartbeat.

The heartbeat that she knows her father is searching for—the one she lacks. Her pulse thrums in her wrists, in her throat, in her head, but her chest is disconcertingly empty. She’s known this for years that she’s missing something. A bit of her body and soul, chipped away to make room for something else.

She remembers— really remembers, something fully her own— studying her own face in the mirror, in the reflection of her blade, searching for any resemblance to her father, wondering how much of her is made up of the mother she never knew. Wonders how often her father looks at her and sees the ghost of his wife.

It’s several long moments before he draws away.

“...Sit down with me?” he asks.

She sits on the edge of her bed alongside Jeralt, close enough that their shoulders brush and she can feel the dip of the mattress from his weight.

He exhales, deep, slow, leaning back with his weight on his hands.

“I used to be young and reckless,” he says. “Just as bad as you. Almost cost me my life once or twice—Rhea saved my life. Gave me her blood in a transfusion. I was… different after that. Hit harder. Aged slower. It took me a while to realize. I stopped counting the years, but I think I’m pushing a hundred at this point.”

“Old man,” Byleth mumbles, and Jeralt nudges her.

“Oi, you’re the one who wanted to hear the story.”

She huffs but quiets all the same, leaning against his shoulder.

“I worked for the church for years, even after I found out what was happening to me. I trusted Rhea— owed her my life. Eventually, I met your mother. Sitri.

“She was… close to the archbishop. Rhea doted on her. Seemed happy when she found out we were involved— even happier when Sitri got pregnant.”

Jeralt pauses then, not quite frowning, but weariness tugs down the corners of his mouth. “Rhea assisted with the birth. It was… hard. She came out with you in her arms, but Sitri… didn’t make it. You were so small, so quiet—you didn’t make a sound those first weeks, not even if you were hungry or alone. I thought—“

He stops suddenly, staring blankly at his hands. “I thought I’d lost Sitri for a shell.”

They’re both silent for a few, long moments. She glances at her father out of the corner of her eye. What must have that been like for him? Losing his wife for a child that might as well have been a doll? It had taken her years before she picked up even the slightest of emotional cues, years of blank stares and non-reactions before she could even pretend to act like a human.

“I took you to a doctor,” Jeralt continues, rougher, now. “He’d never seen anything like it. You had a pulse, but no heartbeat. You barely reacted to anything. So I… I took you and ran. Away from the church. From Rhea. I guess it didn’t matter much in the end, since we ended up back here anyways.”

She brings a hand to rest at her sternum, at the hollow point of her chest. Sothis is silent.

Oh, she thinks.

“I’m shocked Rhea didn’t execute me on the spot,” he says, a little dryly, “which made me more suspicious. But what can I do? Refusing her isn’t an option. Couldn’t even bring myself to say ‘no’ to Alois.”

“I thought this place would be terrible for us. For you. But… every day, I see a little more of Sitri in you.”

Byleth blinks. “How?”

He pokes her cheek. “You smile more. You look just like her when you smile.” His own smile, soft and nostalgic, lingers a moment before he sighs. “I don’t know about the church, but those kids make you happy. They’ve been good for you, I think.”

Happy. It wouldn’t be the first word that she would have picked to describe her life at the monastery, but… it’s not inaccurate.

“Was I not happy before?” she asks.

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t think you were much of anything,” Jeralt says.

Her memory—isn’t very good. Her formative years were spent on the road, her childhood a blur of weapons training and jobs. She wouldn’t have called herself unhappy, but…

“I don’t know,” she says. “You make me happy.”

He huffs, shoulders dropping like he’s finally relaxing, like he’s exhausted, and he wraps an arm around her shoulders to tug her close.

This place is good for her, she realizes—she can’t imagine another world where she would be able to open up to her father like this.

_Cold rain on a cold body_, she remembers, and shivers. How many lifetimes had passed her by, never telling her father what he meant to her?

She tightens her grip on his tunic, the fur of his collar soft against her cheek.

“I’m happy here because I’m with you,” she says finally. “I wouldn’t be otherwise.”

She can feel the smile on his mouth as he presses a kiss to the top of her head. “Next time you go for a drink, I’ll come with,” he says. “Still owe you a round from that bet, anyhow.”

* * *

The dragon towers over them, blood dripping onto the scorching earth like liquid emerald. The air is thick with smoke and copper, ash and steel scalding her throat. There’s little she hears beyond the pounding of her pulse in her eyes, drowning out the distant cries and screeches of metal.

Edelgard stands proud next to her, smeared with soot and grit, blood dripping from her brow like the crown she’d inherited.

Slowly, like a crumbling mountain, the dragon falls. The ground quakes as the beast meets the earth, scales peeling off in shimmers of light.

Her knees give out beneath her, and Edelgard turns, pale eyes wide—wide with fear, she realizes, vision swimming. Not once had she ever seen Edelgard afraid, until now.

“Please,” she hears, distant, muddled. “Professor, please—”

Something hot and wet drips onto her cheek. Tears, maybe. Blood. A mixture of the two.

Her chest is burning, her ribs threatening to crack under the rapidly growing heat.

She dying, she thinks, and then—

Her heart beats.

* * *

Byleth wakes up trembling, drenched in cold sweat, sheets twisted from her thrashing. She clamps a hand over her mouth as she tries to stifle a scream, too-loud in the empty room, praying that she didn’t wake Dedue.

She kicks off the blankets and sits up, knees drawn up and her face in her hands. This was more than she’d dealt with in a long while—she had thought that the worst was over. Apparently not.

Her hand fists tightly in her nightclothes, knuckles digging into her sternum. Her heart is still, and Sothis wavers in her peripherals. An empty chest, a too-full mind.

She looks up at the girl, steadying her ragged breathing. “Did my mother die because of you?” she rasps.

There is nothing accusing in her tone, despite the words— an unspoken ‘or?’ lingers at the end.

“No,” Sothis says. “I wasn’t—I wasn’t awake yet. Until you, I was asleep.”

Byleth closes her eyes. “So it was me, then.”

“You cannot possibly blame yourself for what happened to your mother,” comes the sharp reply.

“Of course not,” Byleth says immediately. “I just—”

“‘_Just_’ nothing,” Sothis snaps. “You are a reckless fool, but in this you are innocent.” She pauses, brilliant eyes narrowed. “What you are responsible for is the here and now, not two decades ago when you could neither speak nor walk, not ten lifetimes ago when fate wrapped its hands around your throat. Questioning yourself at every turn will not save the lives of your loved ones.”

_Cold rain on a cold body_. Byleth takes a slow breath. “You’re right,” she says softly.

Her feet meet the plush carpet, and she pads noiselessly to her desk. The small lantern is lit with a match from her drawer, paper and ink set on wood.

She remembers.

And then she writes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i hope everyone is staying safe with all thats been happening in the world. i've been sort of putting off this chapter bc of a mess of writer's block and about a dozen other projects that needed my immediate (albeit meager) energy. (in the time between updates, my job reopened and then closed again so. yeah.) i think i'm getting my life back on track a bit, though. you can always find my on twitter @jael_dub if you're curious to what shenanigans i get up to when i'm not slaving away at this lol  
to all the readers that have stuck with me this long, thank you, and happy one year anniversary of FE3H!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [here is something to believe in](https://archiveofourown.org/works/21252356) by [foxflowers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/foxflowers/pseuds/foxflowers)


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